


Adamant

by hioangeost



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Fairy Tale, F/M, Masturbation, Oral Sex, Red Riding Hood Elements, Tom Riddle is Not Voldemort, Vaginal Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-14
Updated: 2020-08-30
Packaged: 2021-03-05 21:28:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 21,877
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25892098
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hioangeost/pseuds/hioangeost
Summary: Hermione has to make an after-hours delivery to Paragon Enterprises as part of a project for work. On the way there, she encounters former schoolmate Tom Riddle.A loosely Red Riding Hood inspired Tomione fic. Takes place in an alternate (but recognisable) universe, where the two attended Hogwarts concurrently.
Relationships: Hermione Granger/Tom Riddle
Comments: 131
Kudos: 507





	1. Gryffindor Red

**Author's Note:**

> Started this as a writing exercise/loosener during a struggle with my slow-burn fic. I'm expecting two parts (it might end up requiring three), and will be updating the tags to reflect the content in the second part. Hope that you enjoy!

Hermione checked her watch as she entered the lobby, dispelling the charm that had protected her hair and clothes from the London downpour. While she was hardly _eager_ to attend the wretched cocktail soiree that night, she didn’t want to turn up frizzy and bedraggled either. In an ideal world, she’d have concluded her business day at her nominal finishing time of five o’clock, then headed home for an early dinner, a cuddle with her cat, a bath, and adequate time to dress up before arriving a fashionable ten minutes late to whatever crapulous convocation Theo had spent the last six weeks cooking up. As it was, she’d finished at five thirty, rushed home with her briefcase, skipped dinner, fed Crookshanks, and primped and preened as quickly as she reasonably could, all so that she could deliver Malfoy’s papers today— _‘no earlier than seven, Granger’_ —in preparation for tomorrow morning’s apparently essential meetings.

She had, of course, tried to finagle her way out of this pointless detour, but Malfoy (or rather, his receptionist) had refused to budge. Even though Hermione had made clear she couldn’t stay while he looked over the files, it was apparently imperative that she deliver them in person. Frankly, the whole thing smacked of Draco’s incredible capacity to irritate her. She very much doubted that either Abraxas (who she was fairly certain didn’t recognise her) or Lucius (who very obviously despised her) would have insisted on her presence. Still, she was relieved that the project was nearly concluded. Next time Theo (employed by the Malfoys) tried to wheedle her into some sort of collaboration, she’d tell him to go and splinch himself. After all, _he_ wasn’t the one required to make after-work runs to bloody Paragon Enterprises while she sat at home putting out doilies and mixing mimosas.

While she hated having to turn up to a work-related task in her party clothes, there had been no other option, and a tiny part of her relished the click of her stilettos on the marble floor of the foyer. They were new—a barely-there, open toe, ankle strap arrangement—and she normally wouldn’t have worn something so dressy. However, Theo had warned her that Ron might be at the party and, for all that it was petty and vengeful, Hermione wanted her ex to see her looking good. Her dress was a vivid red, with a simple draped skirt that finished several inches above the knee, a sash under the bust, and a snug, lacy bodice with three-quarter sleeves. She’d left her hair loose, but somewhat tamed. While she thought it was an understated, just-shagged sort of style, she was almost looking forward to Pansy Parkinson’s imminent electrocution comment. Some things never changed.

Given the rain, Hermione had even taken the trouble to throw a cloak over her outfit, transfigured red to match her dress. Not only did it protect her from the elements, it also served to conceal the small, ugly-but-practical black briefcase she was carrying.

Being so late in the day, the foyer of Paragon Enterprises was unsurprisingly deserted. Grateful for the absence of the thrice-damned receptionist (one of the current banes of her existence), Hermione tapped her way briskly towards the lifts. She had nearly, _so_ nearly, reached them when her name sounded from behind her. Hermione ground her teeth in a moment of silent fury, easily recognising the smooth, impeccable voice. Hitching an insincere smile into place, she pivoted on one stiletto-clad foot. The hated Adonis looked back at her with a faint smile that was both perfectly pleasant and perfectly patronising.

“Riddle. Fancy seeing you here.”

“I work here, Miss Granger.” he informed her, as though she didn’t know.

“I meant after hours, Riddle. Oughtn’t you to be attending to your thriving social life?” the dig was utterly hypocritical, and she knew it. While Riddle was famously solitary, never entertaining the countless witches who threw themselves at him, Hermione was hardly more sociable. Even so, she was wearing a cocktail dress; she obviously had _somewhere to go_ , and she’d take the opportunity to rub it in his face.

“I might ask the same of you.” his smile twitched into something that might have suggested genuine humour, and he raked his gaze over her red attire in a way that made her feel as if he’d flayed her. “But I see you’re engaged in philanthropic pursuits. Your outfit,” he flicked his fingers in the direction of her cloak, “makes it quite obvious that you’re off to deliver a basket of goodies to your poor ailing Grandmother.”

The red in Hermione’s vision was nearly as bright as that of her cloak, but she managed to direct most of it into the nasty, razor-sharp smile that she gave him. “The Brothers Grimm? Careful, Riddle, your dirty muggle heritage is showing. Whatever would Abraxas say if he heard you referring to something as plebeian as muggle children’s stories? _Sanctimonia Vincet Semper_ , remember.” Riddle’s smug smile had melted right off his flawless alabaster face, and his near-black eyes narrowed as she continued. “I suppose that makes _you_ the Wolf, though? Silly me—I’ve spent all this time mistaking you for Malfoy’s lapdog.”

“I suppose there’s no knowing, is there.” he said, and despite the anger etched in his tight jaw and slitted eyes, the words were still silky and unruffled. “Anyone stupid enough to mistake a wolf for a grandmother could easily mistake one for a dog. Still, you’re not as foolish at Little Red Cap, are you, Granger?” Hermione noticed that he’d dropped the ‘Miss’. “I should have guessed that you’d merely chosen the colour so that you’d match the hair of your dim-witted, destitute boyfriend.” Hermione bit back the urge to tell him that, if she’d wanted to match Ron, she’d have dressed as a small dick. After all, it was Riddle, not Ron, who was supposed to be the current target of her ire.

“As you undoubtedly already know,” she ground out instead, “Ron and I have gone our separate ways.”

“What a shame.” Riddle said without inflection, making it abundantly clear that he didn’t regard it as a shame at all. “Still, to business. May I take whatever you have in that briefcase?”

“No, you may not. Malfoy’s harpy was inescapably clear: _I_ have to deliver them. It was apparently inconceivable that I might send someone else to do it when I was quite obviously available to be personally inconvenienced.”

“It would only take a moment. I can save you the tedious trip in the lift—the anti-apparition wards don’t apply to those of us affiliated with Paragon.”

“ _Affiliated_ is a lovely way to say that you’re their glorified accountant and paid politico-legal bully boy. Still, I’ve no choice but to disrespectfully decline. I’ll deliver them myself, thank you.”

“As you wish.” he inclined his head gracefully, in that effortless way that he had, gesturing to the lifts. Hermione, keeping a watch on him from the corner of one eye, pressed the button. The lift arrived a moment later with a musical _ping_ that nearly made her flinch, especially when she could already feel how tense she was under the unyielding weight of Riddle’s shadowy gaze. She stepped into the lift and spun to face him again. He was standing unnervingly close, just on the other side of the doors.

“Evening, Riddle.” she said, just to fill the awkward void of silence while she waited for the doors to slide shut again.

“Until next time, Miss Granger.” his eyes stayed on her until the lift _finally_ closed, and Hermione let out a shaky sigh of relief. _Fucking creep_.

***

As Hermione tapped her foot and waited for the lift to reach the top floor (which she privately thought of as the ‘Penthouse Suite’), she contemplated all of the many reasons why she despised Tom Marvolo Riddle.

She had first noticed him when she’d been a fresh-faced first year at Hogwarts. Riddle, two years her senior, had been in his third year, and already had a reputation a mile wide. _Handsome_ , everyone said, even though he’d only been thirteen. _Clever_ , which was the understatement of the bloody century. _Charming_ , which was assuredly and unfortunately true. He was a superhero origin story come to life: a poor, brilliant orphan, plucked from obscurity and ensconced at Hogwarts, where he positively blossomed into something practically supernatural. Like her, he came from the Muggle world, but he had seemed to find his feet in the magical realm so easily. By the time she’d arrived on the scene, he’d been as much a part of the wizarding furniture as all his Pureblood cronies, just twice as smart and three times as well-liked.

From the moment she’d arrived at Hogwarts—shockingly bookish, formidably dedicated to her studies, clearly the top of her cohort—Hermione had been _constantly_ compared to Tom-perfect-bloody-Riddle. _Why, Miss Granger, keep this up and you’ll give Tom Riddle a run for his money_ ; _well done, Miss Granger, the best test score I’ve seen since Tom Riddle_ ; _Following in the footsteps of young Mr Riddle, Hermione_. Tom Riddle had nothing to do with Hermione’s academic achievements—she would have put in the same effort and achieved the same grades regardless of whether he’d been there or not, and she was quite sure that he didn’t sit his tests with the intention of outpacing a little girl. They were _both_ , she could grudgingly admit, highly gifted students, and it was simply a matter of bad luck that their school years had coincided. If they’d been born ten years apart, they could both have completed their schooling without ever crossing paths. Tom Riddle wouldn’t have had to worry about his superior test results being beaten during his own time at Hogwarts, and she could have been top of her class without living under his huge and oppressive shadow.

She had been at Hogwarts for more than two years before she had actually spoken to Riddle for the first time. With the age difference, and the inherent house rivalry between Gryffindor and Slytherin, there was little reason for them to interact in the course of the average day. She’d been in the library one evening, taking out some books, and had unfortunately (and literally) run into Draco. Even at that tender age, he’d been her most obnoxious classmate and had, true to form, called her a filthy mudblood. She had been breathless with the force of her upset (it was an insult she had never truly managed to steel herself against) when, like the answer to her unspoken prayer for retribution, Tom Riddle had materialised from the shadows between the stacks. Hermione had of course known who he was—Riddle was almost sixteen at the time, so staggeringly good-looking that even Hermione’s fledgling pubescence couldn’t fail to take notice, and was also (in case his singular appearance wasn’t enough of an identifier) wearing his Prefect’s badge—and had silently thrilled at the thought that Malfoy would at least lose a few house points for the slur. “Riddle-” she had started, and he’d held up a pale, elegant hand to stop her.

“Don’t trouble yourself, Miss Granger. I heard.” There had been a heavy moment’s silence, while she waited for him to continue, but he hadn’t.

“And?” she’d eventually asked, hating the uncertainty in her own voice.

“I’m disinclined to deduct house points from Mr Malfoy for speaking the truth.” Hermione’s mouth had fallen open in shock, and she struggled to prevent the tears that wanted to form in her stinging eyes. Nonetheless, she stood there, almost trembling with rage, while Malfoy smirked at her before following Riddle back into the library aisles. _Then_ she had known Tom Riddle for what he was: a beautifully-constructed lie.

She hadn’t known, then, that Abraxas Malfoy was already grooming Riddle for a position at Paragon. Riddle could scarcely have disciplined Draco without endangering his future prospects and, for all that she hated it when she had finally made the connection, she did _get it_. Riddle was an orphan with no money and a nondescript family name. He’d have to bow and scrape and scheme to find advancement in the wizarding world, and with a secure and lucrative career already in the pipeline, she could hardly begrudge him his eagerness to keep it. Still, the particulars of the situation had stung: if he’d chosen not to punish Draco, she _could_ have understood that; it was his willingness to sneer down at _her_ parentage that had put him beyond the pale in her estimation.

*

Following that exchange, Hermione had made efforts to avoid Riddle as much as possible. Unfortunately, it hadn’t always been possible. When she had received her Prefect’s badge, Riddle had been Head Boy. He had never afforded her much particular attention, treating her with the same faultless civility as he did all the other Prefects, until they had crossed paths during patrols one night. “Miss Granger.” by then, his voice had developed into that low, velvety purr, and Hermione was privately revolted by the fact that she wasn’t entirely immune to its effects.

“Riddle.” she’d replied, with the bare minimum of courtesy. An uncomfortable beat of silence.

“I believe you’re taking ten O.W.L.’s.” he eventually offered, apparently realising that she wouldn’t be volunteering conversation.

“That’s right.”

“You may not realise that I also took ten,” he started, and honestly, _as if_ there was anything about his academic career that she didn’t already know, given that she couldn’t go two minutes without someone comparing her to him, “but you’d be welcome to borrow my notes, if they’d be at all helpful.”

The offer did surprise her, but Hermione remained suspicious of his motives. What kind of fucking trap was this, this little gesture of mutual understanding?

“Thanks but no thanks, Riddle.” she said rudely. “I’d hate to besmirch your undoubtedly priceless scribbles with my filthy, mudblood hands.” So saying, and without another word, she spun on her heel and flounced down the corridor.

*

Later that week, when she was sitting at breakfast, a school owl had deposited a parcel in front of Hermione. To the consternation of seemingly the entire Great Hall, it was neatly wrapped in brown paper, and topped with a little arrangement of black flowers. Reaching out for an inspection, Hermione pricked herself in the moment before she registered that several of the flowers were actually blackberries, still on the bramble. There were true flowers there too, the unmistakable crimson-black blooms of the Fly Orchid. The two plants made a curious pair, almost sinister in the sobriety of their colour, but Hermione—who had read her Grandma’s copy of _The Language of Flowers_ during a family Christmas—recognised them for what they were. Fly orchid for error, bramble for remorse. Suspecting who might have sent it, but scarcely able to believe that she might be right, Hermione had waited until she was in the privacy of her dorm before opening the parcel. Sure enough, it contained a huge sheaf of notes on the O.W.L coursework, all neatly arranged and beautifully inscribed in Riddle’s impeccable (unmistakable) cursive. She was quite sure that Tom Riddle was the only person alive who would send someone flowers that made them bleed.

The temptation to read his notes was, of course, terrible, and Hermione truly considered it. In the end, though, there was only one possible decision. After searching the greenhouses for hours, she bundled together a variegated pink carnation (for her refusal) and a spike of acanthus (for his artifice), and returned his notes with their original string still enclosing them. He hadn’t bothered sending them a second time.

*

Aside from Prefect meetings, Hermione hadn’t spoken to him again until it was nearly the end of the school year. She’d been returning to the common room late, having spent the evening in the library, when she’d come across Riddle in one of the lesser-known stairwells. He glanced at his watch when he noticed her. “Curfew’s not for another nine minutes, Riddle.” she’d informed him.

“Right as always, Miss Granger.” he’d smiled at her, the warm expression strangely out of place on his too-perfect visage. “With that in mind, I wonder if I might ask you a question?”

Hermione had jerked her head in silent acknowledgement. He stayed quiet for another minute—an agonisingly long one—as if he were struggling to find suitable words.

“Would you, perhaps, care to join me in Hogsmeade this weekend?”

Hermione had scoffed before she could help herself, waving a dismissive hand in his direction. “Funny!” she’d told him sarcastically, and made to move past him.

“I’m not joking.”

“If it’s not a joke, Riddle, then it’s clearly a trap of some description. What, invite the mudblood out for a day and wait for it to embarrass itself? Make a laughingstock of me in front of your precious, Pureblood entourage?” By that point, it had been blindingly obvious that Riddle had _somehow_ clawed his way to the top of Slytherin house, and while Hermione wasn’t privy to what happened behind the closed doors of the Slytherin common room, she was observant enough to notice the way all Riddle’s classmates seemed practically enslaved to him. She was also determined that he’d find a Gryffindor a little bit harder to chew. “Are you hoping I won’t know how to use a knife and fork? Or is that lowlife Macnair hoping to actually _spill_ some muggleborn blood to check whether you can see the dirt or not?”

“If you let me-”

“No, _you_ let _me_ speak, Tom Riddle. I don’t really care what you think of me—you’re a self-serving, egotistical, two-faced snake, and that’s fine. I know that you licked boots for as long as it took to work your way to the top, and I wish you all the best with it. While I’ve never developed much of a taste for kissing arses, I don’t resent you your methods. Use Malfoy and Lestrange and all the others for your own advantage; Merlin only knows that they’d do the same to you if they hadn’t all been born into obscene wealth and Pureblood privilege. But for _you_ —a half-blood orphan with no family, no money, and only as much power as you’ve been able to buy through a combination of intimidation and sycophancy—to look down on _me_ for _my_ heritage-” she paused, with a shrill, frustrated huff of something far too bitter to be considered laughter, “-well, that’s rich, Riddle. I may not have been sorted into the fucking serpent’s nest with you, but I’ve fought just as hard for my place in this world as you have, and I deserve mine just as much as you deserve yours. So you can take your hypocrisy, and your blood-purist dogma, and your…your _fake charm_ , and your pretty face, and your ten O.W.L.s and however-many N.E.W.T.s, and your grooming of the richest and best-connected of your housemates, and shove it all right up your arse.”

It wasn’t until she had finished that Hermione realised they had somehow moved closer together during the course of her rant, and that she had never before had the chance to look at him so _closely_. She knew his eyes were brown, but in the low light of the stairwell they glittered positively black. While he was significantly taller than her, he wasn’t actually _as_ tall as she’d imagined. It was more that he was so upright, and so striking, and so much in control of himself and his surroundings, that he seemed to gain a few inches through sheer presence. He was wearing cologne and, while she couldn’t have identified the name, she could tell it was expensive and, by extension, that it must have been a gift. Even in the privacy of her own mind, it was difficult for her to admit that he smelled utterly delicious. The shadows playing in the hollows of his face made it hard to notice, but she could clearly distinguish a faint flush (presumably of shock and temper) across the marble ridges of his cheekbones. He licked his lips briefly, as if preparing to speak, and Hermione’s gaze unwillingly followed the motion.

They stood there for another moment, suspended in painful silence, before Hermione broke the spell. “Curfew’s in two minutes, and I’d hate to lose house points. Goodnight, Riddle.”

There was no choice _but_ to squeeze past him on the stairs, though she tried to avoid any unnecessary physical contact. He moved fractionally, and for the briefest instant she thought he was going to grab her arm, but his hands remained by his sides. Once past him, she rushed up the stairs, and she had nearly gained the freedom of the adjoining corridor when she heard his polished tones, softer than usual, rise from behind her.

“Goodnight, Hermione.”

She tried very, _very_ hard not to devote a moment’s thought to the way her first name sounded in that plush, seductive voice.

*

Riddle had graduated not long after that last, uncomfortable exchange, and Hermione had spent two blissful years largely free of his shadow. She had, of course, earned her ten O.W.L.’s with ease (nine Outstandings, one Exceeds Expectations), and had taken a full load of seven N.E.W.T courses. If that was the same number Riddle had taken, well, that was hardly any business of hers.

She’d been Head Girl in her seventh year, which was when she’d developed her friendship with her fellow Head student Theodore Nott. She had initially been sceptical of his friendly overtures, but she had come to realise that Theo, for all his dedication to his studies, had a cheeky and irreverent streak that rarely failed to bring a smile to her face. He, too, had been earmarked for a position at Paragon (his father was one of the major shareholders in the Malfoy conglomerate), and had spent much of their seventh year entreating her to consider working there too. Hermione had objected with consistent and almost religious fervour. First, she had objected to the presence of Malfoy. Theo assured her they would rarely cross paths; Draco was far more interested in shagging his way across Europe than spending his days in Paragon’s London office. Then, she had insisted that Paragon would never want to employ someone of her blood status. Theo had told her that, while Paragon _was_ largely controlled by traditionally-minded Purebloods (and by extension blood purists), they valued competence even more than magical pedigree. Provided she wasn’t trying to marry into the family, her being a muggleborn certainly wouldn’t prevent her employment or advancement, and might even be considered quite favourable in relation to certain projects. Then, following a bit of research, she had objected to the mercenary nature of Paragon’s projects—they had zero respect for the rights of magical creatures, and were busily pillaging the environment to benefit their bottom line. Theo hadn’t had much of a comeback for that, and had eventually stopped trying to convince her. She hadn’t bothered to tell him that there was another reason for her not wanting to work there (and truthfully, it was far less important than the company’s complete lack of morality or social justice), and that that reason was Tom Riddle.

*

Hermione had graduated (with her seven N.E.W.T.’s, thank you very much), and had immediately moved into a position with the DRCMC. That decision had been largely motivated by her enduring interest in the rights of magical creatures—House Elves, Werewolves, Goblins, the lot—but _might_ have also been influenced by her desire to stand in the way of Paragon’s viciously destructive agenda.

She had been promoted fairly quickly within the DRCMC, moving up several ranks within the first six months, but in the second half of her first year in the department, she had started meeting with strange, subtle resistance. Her superiors, previously delighted to see her, became more difficult to access. Her drafts, which had always been promptly accepted, were endlessly returned, with lists of increasingly minute and ridiculous edits required. Projects that she proactively supported would be moved down the list of priorities, and those she was obviously against would be granted precedence. Hermione was quite sure that she had done nothing to warrant such a pernicious shift in attitude—she was working to the same high standard as ever, possibly even putting in a little _extra_ effort due to the unspoken animosity—but kept her nose pushed hard to the grindstone, determined that her employers would find her dedicated and uncomplaining, no matter the toxicity of the department.

It wasn’t until she was delivering a draft (in its eleventh version) to her direct superior—a chinless wizard named Bartleby Babbs—that Hermione _finally_ realised what was going on. It was after hours, and the department was accordingly quiet, but she knew that Babbs would be staying late due to an international floo-call from a different timezone, and she had chosen to stay behind to see if she couldn’t finalise her task before going home. Just as she had raised her fist to tap her knuckles against his office door, she had heard (through the wood) a low, urbane voice that she would have recognised anywhere.

“-of course, Bartleby. The Messieurs Malfoy are most indebted to you for your recent efforts, but we—by which I mean, Paragon Enterprises—have grave concerns about this new bill regarding the protection of Mokes.” Hermione’s mouth dropped open in outrage. That was _her_ Moke bill he was talking about, intended to prevent the poor little things from being hunted down and skinned in huge numbers to facilitate the manufacture of purses that were frequently employed for all sorts of shady dealings.

“But, Mister Riddle-” she could _hear_ Babbs sweating bullets, even through the door.

“Unfortunately, Bartleby, while we’re sympathetic to the Department’s desire to preserve Moke numbers in the British Isles, they are essential for a number of Paragon’s more _delicate_ projects. While it’s not something we can advertise, for obvious reasons, your intervention would be very much appreciated.”

“I’m not sure I _can_ —perhaps the Wizengamot?”

“Following the prolonged and exceptionally difficult fight over the amendments to those laws concerning Lycanthropy,” Hermione physically bristled to hear that Paragon had been the ones to shit all over her Lycanthropy proposal when it finally made it before the Wizengamot, “we’re reluctant to attract public attention again so soon. You understand, of course, that it doesn’t look good for the company to be actively opposing measures that _seem_ progressive, regardless of how misguided those measures might be.”

“But the Mokes-” for the first time in months, Hermione felt a flutter of respect for her boss. At least his first thought was for the magical creatures.

“It’s not that we don’t care about the Mokes,” Riddle’s voice was soothing, but laced with danger, “it’s simply that they are _very_ important to an extremely expensive, high-risk venture that Paragon is currently pursuing.” Riddle sighed, the sound almost regretful. “I hate to speak out of turn, Bartleby, and I’d likely lose my job if this ever got back to Abraxas or Lucius…” there was a pause, and a muttered affirmation from Babbs, assuring Riddle of his discretion. “I fear that, if you’re unable to overturn this one, minor piece of legislation, the Malfoys may consider withdrawing their funding from the DRCMC. This is between us, naturally—it’s hardly my place to speculate about what Abraxas and Lucius might decide—but such a loss of income would surely be devastating, not just for the Department, but also for the creatures you protect.”

“I-I-I mean, you’re right, of course, Riddle, but-”

“ _If_ you could somehow prevent the Moke bill before it reached the Wizengamot, I know that the Malfoys would be grateful beyond description.”

“And, uh, this evening?”

“Oh, if you were able to assist, Bartleby, then there’d be no trouble of any description: my overseers would never need to learn the finer details of the conversation we’ve had this evening. While _I_ admire your adamant adherence to your principles, the Malfoys favour compliance, and it would be my pleasure to advise them that you were nothing but accommodating.”

“Your word on that, Riddle?”

“You have it, upon my honour as a wizard and a gentleman.” Hermione had to bite back a viciously scornful snort. A _gentleman_? Like bloody hell.

“I-“ Bartleby paused again, clearly struggling. “Very well, I’ll do my best to assist, of course, and I trust you’ll pass my regards to your employers.”

“I’ll ensure that your regards are adequately conveyed. Evening, Bartleby, and please rest assured that your assistance is very much appreciated.”

Hermione realised what was about to happen only moments before it eventuated—Riddle couldn’t apparate out, so he’d likely need to use the door—and threw herself around the corner. She rounded the corner again, shuffling through her papers as if she were just arriving, and almost ran smack into Riddle as he left Babbs’ office. She hoped her countenance was suitably surprised, but it was hard to get it right when she was trying to smother her fury.

“Miss Granger.” he purred at her, and she barely resisted the urge to slap the smug almost-smile off his face.

“Riddle. Whatever brings you to the DRCMC?”

“Confidential business, I’m afraid.” Hermione gave a non-committal hum, and made to move past him. “You know,” he spoke just as she drew level with him, “if you ever get tired of pushing papers here with nothing to show for it, then we’d welcome you at Paragon.”

“I’m not sure I’d have the patience for your kind of work.” she said, widening her eyes in an expression that she hoped looked heartfelt and sincere. They were standing almost shoulder to shoulder, her chin angled up to meet his gaze, his face lowered towards her.

“And what kind of work is that?” she wondered if she had imagined the way that he leaned slightly closer.

“Uh,” she paused breathily, and Riddle’s eyes darted momentarily to her parted lips, “what is the word? Oh, yes: criminal.” Riddle said nothing, but raised his ink-black eyebrows.

“Good luck with your upcoming Moke bill, Granger.”

“Good luck with whatever blackmail, exploitation, or fraud is next on your agenda, Riddle.” Hermione stepped smartly past him and, with a sharp rap on the door, consigned herself to a miserable fifteen minutes in Babbs’ presence.

*

Hermione had been _desperately_ curious to find out what Paragon business might have required Moke skin, and had promptly gone to her greatest (and only) source of all Paragon-related knowledge. Theo had, unsurprisingly, balked at her enquiries, but she had brought it up so relentlessly, pleaded so sincerely, and (eventually) begged so shamelessly that he had eventually agreed to look into it, so long as she never disclosed whatever he might find.

The results of his inquiries were more telling than Hermione might have expected. Paragon had zero interest in any project even tangentially related to Moke skin, and that included their ‘off the books’ pursuits. Theo had casually raised her bill in conversation with both Draco and Lucius, and had triggered nothing more than blank stares, mild confusion, and a return to the topic at hand. They didn’t even _know_ anything about her proposal to protect the Mokes, let alone have any insidious financial interest in preventing it.

Hermione was obviously unable to disclose the real reason for her sudden interest in Malfoy-Moke-Merchandise, telling Theo that she’d heard ‘rumours’, or that there’d been ‘office gossip’ concerning the potential rejection of her bill. It was during one such conversation that Theo, with that Slytherin acumen which Hermione was both grateful and envious not to possess, uttered a revelation that nearly knocked her flat. “I swear, Hermione,” his frustration was starting to show, “if I’d found _anything_ to indicate even the most trifling interest in those bloody lizards, I would tell you. Honestly, it sounds to me as though this is personal. Someone knows it’s _your_ project, and they’re trying to prevent it to vex you. Or, at the very least, they’re sowing enough doubt through gossip and the like that you _think_ there’s a risk of it being prevented. This is someone trying—through very Slytherin means, I might add, so take that into account when you’re considering your list of suspects—to get to you. Given the way they treat you in that office, it can’t be that difficult to imagine.”

She was stunned. Theo was so obviously _right_. This wasn’t anything to do with Paragon; not directly, at least. This was to do with her. While he may have been right in that supposition, however, she suspected that Theo was very much wrong in his assumptions about the source. She knew precisely who was responsible. 

*

When Theo left, Hermione gave herself over to an impressive fit of temper. How fucking _dare_ Tom Riddle try to sabotage her career. It was so corrupt on so many levels that she scarcely knew where to start. He was preventing her bill from passing simply because it was hers. He was preventing it by blackmailing her boss. He was pretending that the blackmail was coming from the Malfoys, who were, shockingly, innocent in this particular affair. The more she thought over his words, the more she could appreciate how very careful he had been. He had stopped short of actually saying that Paragon would withdraw funding from the DRCMC, merely _implying_ that it could happen. He had shrouded the comment in a veil of confidentiality (and a subtle threat concerning Babb’s intransigence) to ensure that Bartleby would never bring it up with the Malfoys. He had made clear that the business was sensitive, probably bordering on illegal, and that it demanded the highest degree of discretion, so that it would never be mentioned in a meeting or the media.

The more she thought on it, the more Hermione could see his scaly fucking fingerprints all over her recent work troubles. A softly-spoken threat here, a legal objection there, a bribe or two; it all explained how she had gone so quickly from advancing, happy, and productive to stagnant, miserable, and useless. She could hardly believe she’d been so oblivious to his machinations.

Recognising Riddle’s bloody conspiracy was one thing, but understanding it was quite another. Hermione honestly couldn’t understand _why_ he would go to such lengths to complicate her work life. Yes, they had their altercations in the past, but that had been at school. They were adults now, in the workforce, and surely Riddle wasn’t so juvenile as to be holding onto childhood grudges? Yes, he looked down on her muggleborn heritage, but that hardly justified his interference in her career. True, they’d been academic rivals (sort of), but he didn’t stand to gain anything from her current misery. They worked in entirely different areas, for two entirely separate organisations. It wasn’t as if they were competing for a promotion, or a pay increase, or even the favour of their employers.

It was, quite simply, hateful destruction for its own sake.

*

Following her realisation, Hermione determined that the best way to beat Riddle at his own game was to up the ante, increase her public presence, and make herself a constant impediment to Paragon’s projects. Perhaps, if he was busy fretting over potential complications in his _own_ career, he’d take less of an eager interest in hers. She managed a sideways transfer into the legal department of the DMLE where, with a special focus on Magical Creatures, she was the most vocal and consistent objector to countless Paragon initiatives.

She and Theo, who was one of Paragon’s key legal representatives, came up against each other in the Wizengamot more times than she could count. While they were fierce opponents in court—sometimes decisions went his way, sometimes hers—their legal rivalry only strengthened their friendship, and they regularly consulted with one another on cases where they knew there’d be no conflict of interest. One day, after asking if she knew of any precedents for a tricky case concerning a cursed object that had been stolen, but also deliberately placed to encourage the thief, Theo had asked if she’d consider collaborating with Paragon on an upcoming project. The project in question had significant repercussions for a local Hippogriff population, and Paragon, in a move undoubtedly intended to reinforce their virtue in the eyes of the public, were keen to ensure that they had dotted their i’s and crossed their t’s. As one of the leading creature rights lawyers in the ministry, Hermione had the administrative, legislative, and specialised knowledge to consult on the case, and would work closely with Theo to ensure that the project eventuated without any damage to the Hippogriffs or their habitat. She would also be handsomely remunerated for her time, and her Ministry responsibilities would be reduced for the duration of the contract, courtesy of an insanely generous payment made to the department in compensation for her partial absence. She had declined—on principle, she felt she ought to provide at least a degree of resistance—but she would have been mad to pass up the opportunity. Not only was it the financial coup of the decade (the pay really was shockingly good), but it would provide sufficient publicity to significantly advance her career in the DMLE. Fair was fair, though, so she made Theo wheedle for days before she yielded.

***

At that particular moment, stuck in the lift after hours, on her way to perform a menial task that could easily have been allocated to someone else, still bristling from her encounter with Tom Riddle, and with the promise of Theo’s cocktail party hovering over her like a boozy obscurus, Hermione wished she’d made him work harder to convince her.


	2. Slytherin Green

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whew - once I started thinking about Tom's side of their various moments (this initially started as a writing exercise), the words got away from me! Have considered various configurations, but this fic will now be three chapters in total. Still finding my way writing Tom (and this is not a Voldemort Tom, so he is likely a soft version of himself), but I hope he retains enough of his sharp edges to make him recognisable. Thanks so much to everyone who has taken the time to read/kudos/comment, and I hope you'll enjoy the second instalment.
> 
> Please note that the dialogue between Tom and Hermione is the same in both chapters - only the 'surroundings' change. ^_^

Tom stood still and silent as the lift doors slid closed, concealing Miss Hermione Granger from his sight. He had been close, _so_ close, to following her into the lift, and he wondered if she might have guessed the fact from his proximity. She had certainly _looked_ sufficiently unnerved when she turned around and found him there, only a pace or two behind her.

Everything about her _lingered_ , even after the lift doors had closed and the gilded capsule had carried her away. Her image stayed in his mind’s eye: her Gryffindor-red dress, her bare legs and exposed décolletage, her delicate silver shoes that added several inches to her height, and that riotous hair that had featured so prominently in countless of his adolescent (and, perhaps, more recent) fantasies. Her perfume still clung to the air: classic and elegant and not too sweet, the base note of patchouli offset by hints of citrus and rose, a far cry from the sickly floral confections that so many women seemed to favour. Her words continued to ring in his ears: Malfoy’s lapdog, glorified accountant, bully.

As ever, the thing about her that remained the longest after her physical presence was the sheer sense of fucking _vexation_ that she always induced in him.

As ever, that vexation was inextricably linked with the desire to push her onto the nearest flat surface and fuck her much-lauded brains out.

He watched the numbers tick over in the little window above the lift: third floor, fourth, and fifth. Another minute and she’d arrive at Abraxas’ office to deliver her precious papers, only to realise that Abraxas wasn’t there.

It was yet another example of how charmingly, painfully gullible she was. Did she _honestly_ believe that Abraxas Malfoy would stay after hours to receive a briefcase of paperwork from one of his employees? No matter how important the project, no matter how distinguished the bloodline of the employee in question, Abraxas did not inconvenience himself for _anyone_. He paid people like Tom to be inconvenienced on his behalf.

Of course, Tom’s presence in the office had nothing to do with Abraxas. Abraxas wasn’t expecting Granger’s paperwork until the following morning, and had no idea that she was currently on her way to his office. Aside from Tom himself, the only one who knew that Granger was expected was Abraxas’ receptionist—a suggestive hand on her elbow, a lowering of his lashes, a brief glance at her mouth, and Miss Edgecombe had been only too eager to follow Tom’s instructions to the letter, cheerfully ignorant of the fact that they hadn’t originated with her boss. Her enthusiasm was undoubtedly increased by her personal dislike of Miss Granger and her resultant wish to complicate the other witch’s life as much as possible, but Tom couldn’t help but think that she’d have been rather _less_ keen if she knew she was facilitating his seduction of his little brunette vixen.

In fairness, he supposed that _vixen_ was hardly the correct term to describe Miss Granger. Though undoubtedly spirited, he strongly suspected that she had no idea of how very desirable she actually was. While she was scarcely the most beautiful witch of his acquaintance, and didn’t have the magical pedigree to attract the attention of any of the leading Pureblood families, she represented a rare combination of attractive qualities. She was ambitious enough that he had often wondered whether she would have been sorted into Slytherin if she’d been a half- or Pureblood. She was certainly pretty enough that she attracted plenty of admiring glances (he’d seen one of his colleagues and former schoolmates, Avery, ogling her in her pencil skirt just that week, and had barely curbed the urge to curse the other man’s eyes out of his head). She was undoubtedly the sharpest witch he’d ever met, in terms of both her formidable intellect and her withering badinage. Most young ladies were so smitten by the _sight_ of him that they blushed and stammered and fell over themselves to be accommodating, but he’d never had that power over Hermione Granger. She was a little walking labyrinth of contradictions: confident, inasmuch as her intelligence and professional identity were concerned (testified to by her extraordinary presence and success in court), but lacking confidence in her own allure and sexuality (or else she would never have wasted her time with someone as far beneath her as Weasley); possessing a set of truly uncompromising principles that Tom would never quite comprehend (evidenced by her willingness to sacrifice herself for any magical creature that strayed past), yet capable of such sheer spite that it left him breathless (as when she had jinxed those truly remarkable pustules onto the visage of the unfortunate Miss Edgecombe in retribution for some perceived betrayal). She was noble and naïve and vengeful and vicious, sweet and solicitous and clever and cutting, innocent and irresistible and hot-blooded and hypnotizing, and everything he’d never and always wanted.

Tom liked his coffee black and bitter, so thick and dark that it was almost viscous, more than capable of making a lesser man cry. He drank it unflinchingly until only a sip remained, relishing the twist of his tastebuds under the acridity. When he was down to that last mouthful, he added a half teaspoon of sugar so that the brew was transformed almost to syrup. He always savoured that last taste—saccharine enough that it almost made him shudder—and the intense contrast between the bitter and the sweet. In many ways, Granger reminded him of that: half acid, half sugar, and entirely appealing.

As he stood there, contemplating his next move, Tom reflected on the genesis of his strange fascination with Miss Hermione Granger.

***

Initially, Tom had been largely oblivious to her presence at Hogwarts. He had been in his third year when she had arrived for her first and, outside of the most passing awareness of her little bushy head during the Sorting ceremony, had no real reason to pay her any attention. She had been a hat-stall (that he remembered, it had been the talk of that year’s Sorting), but had ended up in Gryffindor. Once she went and joined the lions, he had promptly put her out of his mind: she was of neither interest nor importance to him.

Unfortunately for Tom, Miss Granger was not satisfied to remain one meaningless, anonymous body among the countless others that populated the school. He became aware of her name before he really knew the face that it belonged to, largely due to a conversation that he overhead between Professors McGonagall and Slughorn.

“-coping well enough?” he only caught the tail end of Slughorn’s question.

“Naturally, Horace,” McGonagall had replied, “though the first month is always the most difficult. Nerves and homesickness and all the rest, the transition into the magical world for some, the first time away from their family’s expectations for others, the sudden interest in the opposite sex for the more hormonally precocious—it’s always chaos.”

“Chaos indeed.” Slughorn chuckled. “Though speaking of precocious, Minerva…is young Miss Granger, by any chance, some relation to Hector Dagworth-Granger?” Tom was entirely unsurprised by the query. Though he didn’t know which of the first years Miss Granger was, he knew the name Hector Dagworth-Granger, and it was no surprise that Slughorn would try to collect a relative of the prominent potioneer.

“Not at all, Horace.” McGonagall had replied, and Tom fancied he could hear an edge of satisfaction in her voice. “Miss Granger is a muggleborn.”

“Oh,” Professor Slughorn sounded almost disappointed, but quickly recovered himself, “that’s remarkable.”

“Blood purity is no measure of talent, Horace. You ought to know that.”

“Of course, of course—our Mister Riddle is only a half-blood, after all, and I daresay he’s the finest student the school has seen since Albus.” Tom was gratified to hear his Head of House speak about him in such terms, even if Slughorn lavished him with similar praise nearly every time they came into contact during class.

“I daresay you’re right, Horace,” McGonagall’s words were sporting enough—even though Tom wasn’t one of her precious lions, she’d always treated him fairly and given him credit where it was due, “though I suspect Miss Granger could well give him a run for his money.”

“Right you are.” Slughorn had chuckled, to Tom’s surprise and horror. “A challenger for Tom’s crown; who’d have thought?” After a few more moments of courteous nothings, the professors had parted ways.

That evening at dinner, Tom had asked Malfoy-the-Younger which of the pipsqueaks (even at the tender age of thirteen, Tom couldn’t remember ever being so small) was Granger. With malevolent glee etched across his pointed features, Malfoy had turned to the Gryffindor table.

“Oi!” Draco’s cry was neither becoming nor genteel. Tom privately thought that several generations of dead Malfoys would roll in their lavish graves if they heard ‘ _oi_ ’ emerging so energetically from the scion of their family. “Pothead! Weasel! Granger!”

Potter, the tousle-headed, four-eyed spawn of a well-regarded Auror and his wife, was the first to turn around. Next to him was a red-headed boy who was obviously a Weasley (though Tom wasn’t sure which one…the only ones he could name were Fred and George, who were both in his year level), his face already pink with distemper as he scowled at Malfoy. Tom never got to find out exactly how they would have responded to Malfoy’s impolite bawl (though he guessed it would have been equally impolite), as they were stopped by a brunette girl’s grip on the sleeves of their robes.

The famous Miss Granger was disappointingly unassuming. She was lucky she had brains on her side, Tom supposed, because there wasn’t much else to recommend her. Average height and tending to skinny, her face still had the slight roundness of genuine childhood about it, and she had a set of front teeth that wouldn’t have been out of place on a beaver. By far the most noteworthy aspect of her physical appearance was her enormous hair, a mess of frizz and curls that fell about her shoulders and made her small, pale face look even smaller and paler. He had been preparing to return his attention to his meal, satisfied that there was nothing remarkable about her except for a reasonable degree of academic competence, when the girl had surprised him. Jerking her two friends so that they once again faced the front, she took the moment of relative privacy to sneer magnificently at Malfoy, all glossy teeth (though they were very prominent, they were _extremely_ white) and narrowed eyes. Draco, the little fool, hadn’t thought that far ahead, and just sat there pouting as Miss Granger shook her mane and turned away. _Alright_ , Tom had grudgingly admitted to himself, _a reasonable degree of academic competence_ and _a bit of backbone_. Malfoy may have been an over-privileged little prat, but his family were influential, and better witches than Miss Granger were more than happy to sit back and let him have his way rather than risk incurring his ire (and, by extension, his father’s).

Nerve or no, Tom put the girl from his mind. She might be clever, but a plain, mousey little muggleborn could hardly be considered his _equal_.

*

If Tom noticed Miss Granger more often after that, it was scarcely his fault. Indeed, he was rather inclined to blame Draco for the fact that he noticed her at all. The boy was fucking _obsessed_ with her, and by the time Draco was in third year (and Tom in fifth), that infatuation had taken an increasingly unrefined turn. Hardly surprising, of course—puberty was almost always tragically predictable—but nonetheless a source of irritation to those who had to put up with Malfoy’s seemingly constant snivelling (a transparent cover for his seemingly constant hard-on).

Malfoy’s interest in Granger was very much of the _thrill-of-the-forbidden_ , _wanting-what-you-can’t-have_ variety. It was almost unrelated to the girl herself (he didn’t seem particularly interested in her looks, personality, or interests, unless he brought them up in an effort to torment her), and was entirely motivated by the knowledge that she was out of his reach. A pampered little prick at the best of times, Draco had been the prompt recipient of almost everything he’d ever wanted in his life. As a result, and in a fashion that Tom had observed in many of his wealthy, well-bred classmates, Draco was fascinated by the few things he _couldn’t_ have. Tom suspected that Granger was doubly intriguing to Malfoy, in that sense. On the one hand, her unfortunate pedigree put her far beyond his scope: even if an apocalypse wiped out every other female on earth, there was no way whatsoever that Lucius and Narcissa would permit their precious dragon to pursue any kind of entanglement with a girl of such disreputable parentage as Miss Granger. On the other hand, there was the simple fact that Miss Granger wouldn’t have him: even if Draco’s family would have allowed it, she obviously despised the boy, and Tom couldn’t really blame her.

Tom had been in the library one evening when he’d heard Draco’s nasal voice throw out the predictable insult: _mudblood_. By that point, Tom had been well aware of where he stood with the Malfoys: he was essentially guaranteed a high-paying, challenging job at Paragon (one of the most attractive workplaces in the wizarding world), but he was _also_ expected to treat Draco in a manner befitting his future employer. Certainly, Tom wouldn’t have _chosen_ to interact with Draco if it hadn’t been necessary—the boy was a monstrous pain in his arse, as well as being two years his junior, spoilt, and undeservedly arrogant—but self-interest trumped such minor inconveniences as humouring the Malfoy heir. Tom moved between the shelves, emerging to find the boy (unsurprisingly) confronting Miss Granger.

“Riddle-” Granger had started, and he realised it was the first time he’d heard her speak. Her voice was slightly shrill, though the stridency was likely due to the fact that her entire frame was tight with outrage. He was a little surprised to hear her use his name, even if it wasn’t exactly shocking that she knew him by sight and reputation, but stopped her with a raised hand.

“Don’t trouble yourself, Miss Granger,” if she was surprised by _his_ knowing who _she_ was, he couldn’t tell, “I heard.”

There had been a pause while Granger looked at him expectantly, and Tom realised how much she had _grown_ in the preceding two years. She was still petite, but the softness in her face was gone, and she’d corrected her teeth at some point—they were white and straight and perfect. Her hair was as much of a disaster as ever, but it somehow complemented the fire in her eyes.

“And?” she had eventually asked, apparently impatient for him to dispense justice, and he was startled that she had the audacity to press him. Still, he could hardly discipline Draco; if he deducted so much as a point, the sharp-faced little rat would go rushing back to tattle to Lucius. No, Tom had to show _solidarity_ , demonstrate to Malfoy that he was an _ally_.

“I’m disinclined to deduct house points from Mr Malfoy for speaking the truth.” he said, trying his best to ignore Draco’s malicious delight. The words left a sour taste in his mouth, almost as if he’d spoken the initial slur himself, and Miss Granger’s lambent eyes fixed him with a glare worthy of a basilisk. Her fury didn’t quite conceal her dismay. He could see the faintest tremble in her hands, and suspected she was on the verge of tears. While he couldn’t take her side, he _could_ prevent Malfoy from seeing the true depths of her upset, and he jerked his head at Draco to draw him away before the blond had the opportunity to notice Miss Granger’s glassy eyes and quivering lower lip.

*

It had been almost the end of that school year when Miss Granger had next been brought to Tom’s particular attention. He’d been reclining in the common room, idly chatting with the Lestrange brothers while he gave Avery a thrashing at chess, when Malfoy had come running through the dungeon entrance, flanked by Crabbe and Goyle, pink-cheeked, and clutching his bleeding nose. Tom had almost groaned at the sight, foreseeing the clean-up and ego-soothing that he would be required to provide. _Honestly_ , if Malfoy’s hulking meat-puppets couldn’t at least defend him in a fistfight, what purpose did they serve?

“What happened, Malfoy?” Rodolphus had asked (he, too, was lined up for work at Paragon, though that was due more to his family name that to any personal accomplishments).

“She _punched_ me!” Malfoy sounded absolutely scandalised, almost uncomprehending, and looked at the blood on his fingers in disbelief.

“Who?” Rabastan asked. Only Tom, apparently, had the dubious distinction of being privy to the machinations of Draco’s imagination.

“Granger!” Draco hissed, touching the bridge of his nose carefully. Avery let out an ill-considered hoot of what sounded like hilarity.

“Granger? Your little mudblood girlfriend?”

“She is not my—fuck you, Avery.” Malfoy was practically spitting.

“You let that little girl punch you so hard that she broke your nose?”

“It wasn’t-that’s not-” Malfoy sputtered helplessly. “I couldn’t hit her back! She’s a _girl_.”

Avery snorted. “I see—you were being _noble._ Who says chivalry’s dead?”

“Would you just fucking _fix_ it? Riddle, can you do it? I don’t want that halfwit,” Malfoy directed a glare at Avery, “anywhere near my face.”

The boy’s nose wasn’t broken (he was nothing if not a hypochondriac), even if it was bleeding rather profusely. Tom muttered an _episkey_ , figuring it was better to play along than to inform Draco he was a little pissant. When the blond finally made his way to his dorm, Tom had beckoned Crabbe (the marginally less stupid of Malfoy’s flunkies) over for an interrogation.

“What happened with Draco’s nose, Vincent? Why did Granger hit him?”

“We were outside to watch that stupid griffin get its head cut off.” Crabbe said, apparently too dim to be cognisant of the differences between a _griffin_ and a _hippogriff_. “Granger and Potter and Weasley were there too, and Draco asked if they were there for the show. Granger pulled her wand on him and called him a…” the boy paused, struggling to remember, “…a cockroach. Then Weasley stopped her, and Draco laughed, and she punched him.”

Tom dismissed Crabbe with a wave of his hand, contemplating the story with no small amount of satisfaction, and allowed himself the shadow of a smile. He had forgotten that Hagrid’s beast was due to be executed that afternoon (a monstrous miscarriage of justice, really—everything Tom had heard indicated that Malfoy had more than deserved the injury he had sustained at the hippogriff’s talons), but wasn’t at all surprised that Granger had been there. He’d been aware of her in the library over the preceding months, working herself half to death looking up obscure precedents in dreary tomes concerning creature rights. It had been a pointless exercise from the outset, of course: the board of governors wouldn’t risk displeasing Lucius Malfoy for the life of one measly hippogriff, and the fact that she thought otherwise just spoke to how naïve she was. Still, Tom couldn’t help but admire her resolve. While the hippogriff may have lost its head regardless, he hoped that the indomitable Miss Granger had found at least _some_ catharsis in punching Malfoy right in his self-satisfied face. He rather wished he’d been there to see it.

*

When Tom had been in sixth year, he had found himself in the midst of one of his dorm-mates’ tiresome, inevitable conversations about which of the girls were most attractive. He had comparatively little interest in pursuits as banal as sex and, outside of brief masturbatory episodes that lacked any particular object outside of release, chose not to spend too much time considering his cock. Sadly, the same couldn’t be said for his classmates. At sixteen and seventeen, they were all appallingly over-sexed, and that went for the witches as well as the wizards. Tom—Prefect, top of the class, clever, charming, and handsome (there wasn’t a lot of point denying it, he could see very well what he looked like)—could scarcely walk between classes without girls throwing themselves into his path. Most of them were Pureblood heiresses who’d be married off to wealthy families and, while they may have liked his face and his charisma, they only really wanted the excitement of a secretive fuck in a darkened alcove. While that didn’t bother Tom ( _he_ had no particular use for any of _them_ either), he didn’t particularly care to oblige them. Anyone who wanted a thrilling, dirty shag could take it up with Avery or one of the Lestranges, though the chances of any of those three resisting the temptation to talk about it afterwards hovered somewhere substantially below zero.

“Selwyn, then?” Avery was asking. “You have to admit, Rod, it’s a _killer_ rack.”

“Granted,” Rodolphus replied, “but I’m more of a leg man, and Fawley has the best legs in the school.”

“Bullshit.” Rabastan interjected. Despite the fact that he was a year their junior, he and his brother were almost inseparable, so Rabastan could usually be found in Tom’s dorm. “That girl on the Ravenclaw Quidditch team has the best legs and arse I’ve ever seen. I bet she could crack nuts between her thighs.”

“I take it you’d let her crack _your_ nuts, Rab?” Macnair sneered.

“Steady, Wally,” Rabastan replied, flipping Macnair the bird, “ _you’re_ the only one who’s into that kind of thing.” It was true: Walden already had a reputation for enjoying pain, and it was common knowledge that he’d made Alecto Carrow cry during a rough blowjob.

“There’s Parkinson.” Rodolphus said, speculatively. “She’d be a smart match: rich, good name, pretty enough despite that weird little squashed-in nose.”

“Pretty sure she’s shagging Malfoy,” Rabastan replied, “but if we’re considering other year levels, there’s Abbott in Hufflepuff.”

“She’s already betrothed to what’s-his-face in her year, the one who sounds like he’s got a wand up his arse.” Avery said.

“Finch-Fletchley?” Rodolphus asked.

“No, the other one. The smug one.”

“Macmillan?”

“Yes! Betrothed to Macmillan. Not that a little thing like a betrothal has ever got in the way of Marietta Edgecombe.” Avery added with a wink. Rabastan mimed vomiting.

“ _Please_ ,” Tom finally interjected, disgusted, “get your urges in hand before you lower yourself to the likes of Marietta Edgecombe.”

“Come on then, Prince Charming,” Rabastan cooed. “If you’ve got such high standards, you tell us who you’d pick.”

“Obviously none of them, Rabastan.” Tom had replied scathingly. “Even though they _have_ offered, which you’ve undoubtedly noticed, feeding off my scraps the way you do.” Rodolphus and Avery both tittered, wincing melodramatically, but they all carried on the conversation regardless.

“If you like brains,” Rabastan observed, “Granger is the cleverest girl in school. Not bad to look at, either, even with that hair. Pretty sure Draco’s wanted to bone her since they were about twelve. A real shame about her blood status.”

“I could overlook that.” Macnair said nastily. “I kind of like the hair, and after all the trouble with that hippogriff last year-” Macnair’s father had been the executioner “-I wouldn’t mind grabbing a big handful of it, forcing her to her knees, and choking her with my—”

“ _Enough_.” Tom hissed. “Keep your _impulses_ to yourself, Walden.”

Apparently sensing the danger behind his words, the others had finally shut up, readied themselves for bed, and turned out the lights. Tom wondered how many silencing charms were in place to drown out the sounds of the no-doubt-furious wanking that was occurring all around him. He closed his eyes determinedly.

 _I kind of like the hair_ , Walden’s voice threaded through his mind, _I wouldn’t mind grabbing a big handful of it_. Choking her with his cock? _Really_? Tom had seen Walden in the buff, and the boy would be flat out choking a fucking _flea_ with that thing. Tom turned his thoughts _very_ firmly from further consideration of Walden’s endowments (perhaps ‘liability’ was a better term), but found it more difficult to steer his musings away from Miss Granger. While Tom had no particular desire to punish her, the thought of her on her knees, with her wild hair and her bright eyes, was not without a certain appeal. He went to sleep, ignoring the inconvenient erection that (literally) reared its head at the direction of his imaginings.

If Walden took an extremely nasty fall down a flight of stairs the following day, breaking his arm and two of his ribs…well, in a castle as old and unpredictable as Hogwarts, unfortunate accidents occasionally happened.

*

It wasn’t until Tom commenced his seventh year (as Head Boy) that he realised Granger had been actively avoiding him, and once he knew, he couldn’t believe he hadn’t noticed sooner. At some point during the holidays, he had finally come to terms with the humiliating knowledge that, for all his pretences of indifference towards sex in general, he very much wanted to fuck Hermione Granger.

Unfortunately, with that acknowledgement came the realisation that Miss Granger very much did _not_ want to fuck him. In fact, she barely deigned to interact with him at all.

She was icily polite during Prefect meetings, treating him with a sharp courtesy that was only a shade shy of rudeness. She avoided speaking to him directly unless there was no other alternative, remaining largely silent, or muttering to her fellow Prefects until they asked questions on her behalf. She arrived the instant the meetings started and never a moment earlier, clearly not wanting to risk being alone with him. She left as soon as they concluded and, on the one occasion he had the sense to ask her to stay behind, insisted that Weasley (the male Gryffindor Prefect for her year) remain to keep her company. Tom took care to always sit directly in her line of sight, arranging himself so that he was presented at what he deemed his most flattering angle, but Miss Granger was unmoved. It was almost as if she _knew_ about the starring role she’d played in several of his more lurid dreams. He was devoutly thankful that, having turned seventeen the previous school year, he had finally been able to move out of Wool’s and into a dingy little flat off Knockturn Alley (a feat he’d never had managed without the financial backing of the Malfoys—they had been so generous that he could have had something substantially more luxurious, but he didn’t want to give the appearance of living beyond his means). His newfound privacy, away from his dorm-mates _and_ the omnipresent eyes of the other orphans and Mrs Cole, had been a blessing when (on more than one occasion) he’d woken flushed, panting, and with sticky sheets.

Miss Granger’s indifference—Tom preferred to think of it as indifference, even though _dislike_ was probably closer to the mark—posed an intriguing challenge. Almost from the moment he’d been aware of his own sexuality, Tom had been the target of other people’s attempts at seduction. Girls (and a few of the boys) simply _wanted_ him, and he had no doubt that most of them would willingly indulge him in all kinds of depravities. While he occasionally wielded his looks as a sort of weapon to get what he wanted from people, he never actually had to _work_ to win anyone over—they were already hopelessly inclined to like him, and it was a simple matter of giving them just a tantalising hint of what they sought from him. Granger, of course, was the exception to the rule, and that placed Tom in the unique position of being the one to _do_ the seducing.

While he was compromised by his complete lack of experience, Tom was also shrewd and observant. He’d watched Avery and the Lestranges make fools of themselves often enough in their pursuit of skirt that he had learnt a thing or two. Miss Granger was not (unless he was very much mistaken) the type of witch to drop her knickers just because he asked nicely. Nor was she some shallow tart who’d be easily won over with a sparkly trinket. No, Granger liked knowledge, and learning, and books, and exams, and in that particular sense, she could scarcely have wished for a better match.

Tom’s opportunity arose during Prefect patrols, when he and Miss Granger passed one another in a corridor. He had studied her preferred route over the preceding weeks, and _just happened_ to ensure that he was in the right place at the right time.

“Miss Granger.” he greeted her in the same voice that he used when he was trying to coax a discount from female shopkeepers, and which Rodolphus insisted would be sufficient to melt a wrought-iron chastity belt.

“Riddle.” she snapped, apparently unimpressed.

“I believe you’re taking ten O.W.L’s.” he offered, when she didn’t volunteer anything further. There was no ‘belief’ about it, of course—he knew very well that she was taking ten.

“That’s right.” she really _was_ frosty. He wondered if she was still put out over the library episode two years earlier. If she was, he almost admired her commitment to holding a grudge.

“You may not realise that I also took ten,” he said, warming up to his grand gesture, his offer that would surely be the gracious fulfilment of her academic daydreams, “but you’d be welcome to borrow my notes, if they’d be at all helpful.”

She narrowed her pretty eyes at him, obviously suspecting some ulterior motive (despite her Gryffindor nature, she clearly wasn’t _entirely_ without intuition). There was a long pause.

“Thanks but no thanks, Riddle.” she snarled at him with surprising vehemence. “I’d hate to besmirch your undoubtedly priceless scribbles with my filthy, mudblood hands.”

Miss Granger pivoted on her heel and marched off down the corridor, leaving Tom standing there in a state embarrassingly close to stupefaction. If Avery had been in his position, he’d certainly have shouted something about how she was welcome to besmirch a lot more than _just_ his notes, but Tom would never be so uncouth, so he let her go. It seemed that she was, indeed, still bitter about that unsavoury incident in the library.

*

Tom was still confident that appealing to her intellect was the way to Miss Granger’s favour, but he accepted that maybe she, like most girls, would also be susceptible to softer, more overtly romantic gestures. With that in mind (and wanting to assure her that he didn’t sneer down at her blood-status), he commandeered Nott’s copy of _The Language of Flowers_. The Notts, like most Sacred Twenty-Eight families, were practically Victorian in their (public) lives, so it was no surprise to find the book in the boy’s possession. Despite her own muggle ancestry, Tom was sure that Granger would have read it. She read _everything_.

He pored over the boring, stupid volume in the privacy of his four-poster, trawling over the list of flowers and their meanings until he felt he’d come to an appropriate combination. He could acknowledge his error in not deducting points from Malfoy, _and_ could make it clear that he was remorseful, but he wouldn’t need to _actually_ apologise, and she would no doubt be flattered to receive flowers in the first place.

He sourced the bramble at the edges of the Forbidden Forest, choosing a straight, elegant cane bearing several glistening blackberries. The Fly Orchid was harder—he was unable to find one in the greenhouses, and had eventually resorted to transfiguring one from a dandelion, consulting one of his Herbology textbooks to ensure that the shape and colour were right.

He tied a thin black ribbon around his notes and wrapped them carefully, finished with his conscientiously-selected mini-bouquet. On the appointed morning, he watched Miss Granger discreetly as a school owl delivered the parcel. She stuffed the package quickly into her bag, cheeks slightly pink with embarrassment and pleasure, touching her fingers briefly to her lips, and Tom silently relished his victory as he sipped his cup of tea.

That evening, Tom had been sitting in the library doing some revision for Astronomy when one of the school’s house elves popped into existence beside him. He startled slightly ashamedly—while he was _nominally_ revising, he had also been pondering whether Granger might be lying in bed, surrounded by his notes and his flowers, perhaps thinking of him…fondly—but his ardour was quickly cooled by the sight of the parcel in the elf’s hands. “This is being for you, Master Riddle, sir.” the little green-eyed gremlin had chirped at him, and it had placed the package in front of him before popping back into nothingness.

Tom’s beautifully-arranged, impeccably-transcribed notes looked up at him, quite obviously unopened. She hadn’t even untied the ribbon. The flowers were gone, and had been replaced with a carnation (horribly pink) and a spear of acanthus (much less offensive). With an irritated sigh, Tom dug through his bag for Nott’s stupid book. _Artifice_ and _refusal_. Glancing around to check that there had been no witnesses to her unspoken rejection, Tom cast a quick _incendio_ , and the flowers burnt away to nothing.

*

While Tom was resolute, he was also wary of a public rebuff. As such, he kept his attentions to Miss Granger more _discreet_ for the remainder of the school year, endeavouring to make her life easier in a variety of small, thoughtful ways that he felt sure she’d notice. While they didn’t share any of their classes (a fact which limited his access to her), he kept an eye out for her at all times. When compiling the Prefect rosters, he ensured that she was always allocated the most convenient patrols. Whenever she was present to witness it, he awarded house points (though only sparingly) to Gryffindor for trifling successes. He cast a feather-light charm on her satchel, so that she wouldn’t sag under the weight of all her books. He shooed other students away from her preferred table in the library, using a variety of unlikely excuses, to guarantee that she’d always get her favourite spot. He signed a petition concerning Goblin rights after witnessing her impassioned lecture on the subject (the lecture was directed at Potter, who was quite obviously not listening). He inconspicuously jinxed some buffoon named McLaggen for making a lewd gesture at Granger behind her back.

After several months of such understated courtesies, Tom felt that Miss Granger’s feelings towards him must have softened. While she could hardly fling herself at him—he understood that she had a reputation to maintain, and empathised with her desire to appear aloof—he was certain that he had sufficiently atoned for any past misdemeanours. He was pleasantly surprised, therefore, when he encountered her in a remote stairwell late one night. Seeing her approaching, he quickly checked his watch to confirm the date: the final Hogsmeade trip for the year was the coming weekend.

“Curfew’s not for another nine minutes, Riddle.” she bit out, noting his glance at the watch.

“Right as always, Miss Granger.” he smiled at her, the expression sitting oddly on his face, which was more accustomed (even when he was in a good mood) to a smirk. “With that in mind, I wonder if I might ask you a question?” she didn’t respond with words, but gave an impatient sort of spasm which he took for acquiescence. Tom swallowed anxiously—he hated to put himself so obviously at her mercy, but there was really no other way to enquire. “Would you, perhaps, care to join me in Hogsmeade this weekend?”

“Funny!” she snorted at him, and began to move off, as if that concluded their exchange.

“I’m not joking.” Tom blurted out, hoping that his offense and displeasure wasn’t as evident in his voice as it felt.

“If it’s not a joke, Riddle, then it’s clearly a trap of some description. What, invite the mudblood out for a day and wait for it to embarrass itself? Make a laughingstock of me in front of your precious, Pureblood entourage? Are you hoping I won’t know how to use a knife and fork? Or is that lowlife Macnair hoping to actually _spill_ some muggleborn blood to check whether you can see the dirt or not?”

“If you let me-”

“No, _you_ let _me_ speak, Tom Riddle. I don’t really care what you think of me—you’re a self-serving, egotistical, two-faced snake, and that’s fine. I know that you licked boots for as long as it took to work your way to the top, and I wish you all the best with it. While I’ve never developed much of a taste for kissing arses, I don’t resent you your methods. Use Malfoy and Lestrange and all the others for your own advantage; Merlin only knows that they’d do the same to you if they hadn’t all been born into obscene wealth and Pureblood privilege. But for _you_ —a half-blood orphan with no family, no money, and only as much power as you’ve been able to buy through a combination of intimidation and sycophancy—to look down on _me_ for _my_ heritage, well, that’s rich, Riddle. I may not have been sorted into the fucking serpent’s nest with you, but I’ve fought just as hard for my place in this world as you have, and I deserve mine just as much as you deserve yours. So you can take your hypocrisy, and your blood-purist dogma, and your…your _fake charm_ , and your pretty face, and your ten O.W.L.s and however-many N.E.W.T.s, and your grooming of the richest and best-connected of your housemates, and shove it all right up your arse.”

Tom was both appalled and impressed. When it came to his relationships with his housemates, Miss Granger had _much_ more astute observational powers than he would have credited her with and, while he didn’t appreciate her suggestion that he was some sort of bottom-feeding lickspittle, he couldn’t fault her general comprehension of the scenario. On the other hand, her words appeared to constitute a decisive rejection. He could scarcely believe that she had the audacity to throw his orphanhood and poverty in his face—low blows, both—and he was even more stunned to think that she imagined him a blood-purist. He _knew_ she’d fought for her place in the wizarding world, just as he had. He _knew_ she was better than Malfoy and Parkinson and other little twits who’d been born to prospects that he and Granger could scarcely imagine. He _knew_ she was brave and powerful and talented and deserving, with a ludicrously big heart worn on her sleeve and a vicious streak a mile wide.

During her rant, Miss Granger had approached Tom (presumably in an attempt to menace him with her diminutive frame), and he was cognisant of the fact that she’d never come so close to him before. He had never before appreciated the sheer multitude of browns and golds present in her eyes, nor the clarity of her skin, nor how many faint freckles overlaid her nose and cheeks. As she stood there, glaring up at him and awaiting a response, Tom wondered whether he ought to kiss her. He actually licked his lips in preparation, curious as to what she might do—kiss him back? Hit him like she’d hit Malfoy two years earlier?—when he was struck dumb.

As she’d come closer, he had been aware that the Miss Granger smelled extraordinarily pleasant. He’d initially thought it must be some combination of the products she used (perfume, shampoo, conditioner), but he quickly realised that it wasn’t. While she _was_ wearing a very agreeable perfume, she also smelled faintly of peppermint, her breath had a hint of vanilla sweetness, and an easily-discernible note of old books clung to the air around her.

It wasn’t the fact of her smelling so good that incapacitated Tom, however. It was the fact that he had smelled those _exact_ scents, in that _exact_ combination, less than two years earlier; in the first Potions lesson of sixth year, as he leaned over Slughorn’s cauldron of Amortentia.

The realisation was shocking, and horrifying, and somehow dizzyingly exciting, and he thrilled at it and resented it in equal measure.

“Curfew’s in two minutes, and I’d hate to lose house points.” Miss Granger broke the silence. “Goodnight, Riddle.” Tom was almost charmed by her apparent need for some modicum of politeness: she had sworn at him, insulted him, rejected him, and yet she _still_ couldn’t quite bring herself to leave without saying farewell. She just barely brushed against him as she made her way up the stairs, and he wondered whether the contact had been deliberate. For the briefest, most heart-seizing moment, he considered stopping her. Ultimately, entirely ignorant of what to do or say, he chose not to.

She was grateful to have escaped him, he realised, listening to the rapid, uneven footfalls as she rushed up the stairs. Her shoes struck the landing, and the knowledge that she would shortly be gone prompted him to action.

“Goodnight, Hermione.” the words were barely louder than a whisper, so low and uncertain that he wasn’t even sure she’d hear them. She did, though: there was a momentary lapse in her steps before the door creaked open, then thudded closed.

As he lay in bed that night, Tom reconciled himself to the fact that Miss Granger had an inescapable hold over his mind and, he now suspected, his heart. Despite his wishes, he could no longer pass off his infatuation as mere sexual interest, let alone as anything as distant or impersonal as _respect_ or even _admiration_. Being of naturally suspicious bent, he would have assumed that she had somehow bewitched or poisoned him, but he was (just) honest enough with himself to know that his interest in Granger had been slow, developing over years, or it would never have succeeded in surprising him so profoundly. Whatever it was that festered away within him, he hesitated to put a name to it. Nonetheless, he knew that it was there.

With a degree of bitter acknowledgement, Tom finally indulged himself to an extent which he would previously have considered unthinkable. He had never before masturbated to thoughts of Hermione Granger (he had _come_ to thoughts of her, but they had been _unconscious_ thoughts, outside of his control), but that night he did. He cast a silencing charm first—he was concupiscent, not _stupid_ —then gripped his prick so unforgivingly hard that it was almost as if he blamed the hapless flesh for his predicament. Initially he used his hand, imagining that it was her smaller, finer hand that rubbed along his shaft (he eased his hold accordingly—he didn’t think she would be cruel or confident enough to apply the sort of pressure he’d been using). When he was almost gasping, he stopped, largely to torture himself, before casting a lubrication charm. Reapplying his copiously greased fist, he closed his eyes to better pretend that it was her mouth. In his mind’s eye, it was something she did for him willingly, excitedly, kneeling before him with eagerness and lust in her bright eyes as he twined his fingers through her riotous curls. When he came, he came hard, groaning her name in a breathless kind of pleasurable anguish.

Tom graduated ten days later, aware of the fact that he would be parted from Miss Granger for at least the next two years. Fortunately, he was a resourceful character, and patient.

***

As the light on the lift illuminated, indicating that it had finally reached the top floor, Tom allowed himself a bit of a smirk: resourceful and patient indeed. It may have taken several years, but he finally had Miss Granger just where he wanted her. With a deep, balancing breath, he twisted into nothingness as he apparated to Abraxas’ office.


	3. Electrum

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The story comes to its conclusion! In the interests of fairness, the first half is Hermione's POV, second half is Tom's.  
> Sincerest thanks to everyone who has taken the time to read, leave kudos, and comment - the reception for this has been so kind, and I hope you'll all enjoy the final instalment (though it's obviously difficult to please everyone).
> 
> Electrum, for anyone who isn't familiar, is a naturally occurring alloy of silver and gold. ;)

The lift chimed softly as she finally reached the seventeenth floor (and really, there was no reason why Paragon needed such a palatial building—they could easily have fit into a structure a fraction of the size), and Hermione made her way to the centre set of immense, pretentious double doors. A platinum nameplate, because the Malfoys would apparently never use something as working-class as gold, read: _Abraxas C. Malfoy_. A little diamond was embedded in the centre of the ‘o’, in a nod to the company’s name and logo. Hermione knocked and waited; Abraxas loved to make people wait.

She would typically have delayed her entry until she was admitted by Abraxas’ slightly adenoidal voice, but it was late, and she wasn’t in the mood to be trifled with. She shoved the door open brusquely, eager to hand over the papers and be on her way. She had removed her cloak in the lift, draping it over her arm so that it wouldn’t tangle with the briefcase, and was already preparing to thrust the case at him and scarper before he could ask her for anything else. Looking up at the massive desk (mahogany, to match the doors) which Abraxas was seemingly always seated behind, Hermione froze.

He wasn’t there. The desk was clear, everything put away in preparation for the following day. The lavish leather chair behind it was vacant. The sumptuous curtains were drawn across the vast window. Abraxas had, very clearly, already gone home for the day.

“I did _try_ to save you the trip.” Riddle’s voice, dark and deep as sable, emerged from the shadows behind her, and Hermione started violently. She hadn’t even seen him lurking amid the forest-green lounge suite that constituted Abraxas’ informal sitting area.

“ _Merlin_.” she hissed, waiting for her heartrate to return to normal. “How did you—you know what, I don’t care. Where is Abraxas?”

“He’s not here.”

“I can see that, Riddle, I’m not _blind-_ ”

“Aren’t you?”

It took a moment for his words to sink in, but when they did Hermione whipped her head around quickly, checking that Abraxas hadn’t somehow materialised behind her. He hadn’t. While it was hardly her fault that Granddaddy Malfoy had pissed off for the day, she was in a bloody dilemma now. Her only real options were to leave the papers with Riddle—inconceivable…she didn’t trust him as far as she could kick him—or to take them with her and deliver them a day late. Neither option thrilled her.

“You can tell your boss,” she stalked towards Riddle, almost spitting with temper, “that I don’t appreciate having my time wasted. If he’s going to insist upon all this cloak-and-dagger, after hours, in-person delivery, the least he could do is actually _be_ here.”

“Granger-”

“As it is, I’ll be taking the papers with me, rather than leaving them in your slimy,” she paused, struggling for an appropriately pejorative, snake-related word, “ _coils_.”

“Granger-”

“Get out of my way, Riddle.” she snarled. His armchair hiding place meant that, when he stood up and approached, he had come between her and the door.

“ _Granger_ ,” his tone was forceful enough that Hermione stopped talking out of sheer surprise, “there was no delivery.”

“What do you think this is?” she brandished the briefcase at him. “Demiguise hair?”

“I mean that Abraxas didn’t insist on anything.”

“But the receptionist told me-”

“ _I_ was the one who wanted you here, after hours and alone.”

There was a long, uncomfortable silence—they had perfected those after years of practise—as Hermione processed the danger. She noted, as they stood there, that Riddle had abandoned his outer robes before apparating up to Abraxas’ office. Though he looked good in his black slacks and white business shirt, he also looked… _wrong_. His sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, revealing his pale forearms, and his tie was slightly askew, and sitting just below his collar. They were small things, and would hardly have been noteworthy on anyone else, but in Riddle’s meticulously well-presented book they definitely qualified as uncharacteristic dishevelment. He was the most _manufactured_ human she could ever recall encountering, and nothing was ever out of place—he generally gave the impression of having been put together in a lab, like some particularly dangerous pathogen waiting to creep out of its petrie dish. Or perhaps on an assembly line, like an expensive car: part Male Model, part Victorian Gentleman, with an all-leather Sociopath interior (probably, she thought ungenerously, trimmed with Serial Killer). Looking at him there, with his rolled sleeves and crooked tie, reminded her powerfully of the way he used to sit in Prefect meetings. He _always_ sat directly opposite her, and he _always_ looked like a fucking figurine. It was enough to make all the hairs on her arms prickle, and she was grateful that her dress had long sleeves, and that he likely wouldn’t notice the goosebumps.

Riddle took a slow step towards her, keeping his eyes fixed on her the whole time, and Hermione’s nervous system kicked up an extra gear. It was only through force of will that she maintained her position: the desire to step back, to match his advance with her retreat, was nearly overwhelming. She had never felt quite so much like prey.

“What are you doing?” the words escaped without permission and, despite her best efforts, her voice squeaked a bit with the question. Riddle had twisted his index finger through his tie, pulled the knot undone, and thrown the strip of green silk to the floor. Her anxiety escalated; whatever he had planned, he clearly believed it would be messy.

“You’ve always thought you understood me very well, Miss Granger. Why don’t you tell me?” he asked indifferently, in a tone very much at odds with the way he was prowling towards her. Even Hermione’s not-inconsiderable courage buckled a bit at his approach (if her knees did the same, she pretended not to notice), and she took several hasty steps back to keep the distance between them after all.

“If you’re trying to threaten— _would you stop that?_ ” Riddle, having discarded his tie, had proceeded to unfasten the top two buttons of his shirt. Hermione was trying very hard to keep her focus fixed on his face, but she was still aware of the sharpness of his collarbones, and the little shadowy hollow between them. With a brisk flick of his fingers, his tie leapt off the carpet and rolled itself neatly, zipping across the room to one of Abraxas’ side tables in an effortless display of wandless, non-verbal magic that left her feeling slightly shaky.

“Why?” he asked. “Am I distracting you?”

Hermione forced out a derisive snort which she didn’t quite mean. “You wish.” she sneered. Hardly her best work, as far as repartee was concerned, but she was under duress.

“You did tell me, once, that I was pretty.” he purred, sneaking even closer, and Hermione felt herself flush hotly at the recollection. Riddle had tilted his head to one side, and was surveying her through his lashes. Even though she was half-terrified that he planned to murder her, it was only her lingering outrage over her wasted time that prevented Hermione’s knickers from combusting under the intensity of his regard.

“I-” she stuttered slightly, and devoted a moment to silently cursing her own panicky incertitude, “-if I recall correctly, Riddle, I also called you a hypocrite, a blood-supremacist, a panderer, and a fake.”

“And despite all that,” his voice oozed false sympathy, “you were _still_ attracted to me.”

“I didn’t say _that_.” she replied, so quickly and emphatically that the lie behind the words was perfectly obvious. “I just…you…I’m a realist, Riddle. I can acknowledge that you’ve got nice-” Hermione’s brain supplied a number of absolutely unthinkable options. In her desperation, the ingrained instincts of a dentist’s daughter won out: “-teeth.”

There was a moment of painful quiet, and the teeth in question flashed at her in a predatory grin. “Nice teeth.” he said softly, and tapped his index finger against his chin in faux thoughtfulness. “What is the line?” Hermione, wary of the smothering tension in the room, looked at him in unspoken query. She wasn’t blind to the cruel irony— _what is the word_ , she’d asked him that night in the Ministry, _oh yes, criminal_ —but she knew that Riddle wouldn’t wait too long to deliver his feigned eureka moment. He loved attention, the self-important prick, and wouldn’t risk losing hers through needless delay. “Oh yes,” his smile was both beatific and frightening, “all the better to eat you with, my dear.”

In the next moment, several things happened simultaneously.

Hermione whipped out her wand, having finally managed to slowly and discreetly retrieve it from the lacy thigh-holster concealed by her skirt.

She dropped her briefcase, which she had kept in a white-knuckled grip, and her cloak, which had been concealing her wand-hand.

Riddle struck.

As Riddle jumped forward, Hermione jumped back. Her left hip collided painfully with the edge of Abraxas’ desk—and really, how had he chased her _that_ far into the room without her noticing—preventing further retreat. Riddle’s Oxford-clad foot tangled in the cloak she’d abandoned, causing him to stumble in the most ungraceful movement she’d ever seen him make. He recovered his balance largely unaided, but caught himself on the edge of the desk nonetheless, his arms framing her body and his chest uncomfortably close to hers.

They froze there in a strange tableau, with Hermione pressed against the desk, Riddle trapping her there, and the tip of her wand stabbing into the flawless, tissue-delicate skin just beside his Adam’s apple.

“Another step,” she said, a little unsteadily but with dangerous intent, “and I will hex you a new arsehole.” She had never seen Riddle look so uncontrolled before: his hair was slightly disordered from having his hand run through it, his near-black eyes glittered with an atypical degree of emotion, a high colour glowed across his normally ivory cheeks, and his lips were slightly parted for breath.

Careful not to actually move his feet—perhaps he took her threat seriously—Riddle leaned into her. He did it slowly, so slowly that it seemed as if he was hardly moving at all, but then his face filled her vision, close enough that the tip of his nose just barely brushed against her burning cheek. His eyes were so dark that she hadn’t noticed earlier, but she could see that his pupils were _massive_ , blown wide. She wondered if he was on drugs: it would certainly explain why he was all…flushed and agitated.

Her eyes flicked down when she saw him use the very tip of his tongue to moisten his lower lip, and she swallowed painfully, unable to curb the instinctive response. He smelled divine, and vaguely familiar, though she couldn’t pinpoint the scent. She raised her hands with vague notions of pushing him away, but found she was reluctant to touch his chest, or his back, or even his arms, which suddenly all seemed like very _intimate_ body parts. She rejected the tiny, niggling concern that the main reason she didn’t want to put her hands on him was because she worried, if she did, she’d struggle to take them off again.

As he leaned even closer, Hermione parted her lips for a trembling breath. Her heart was fluttering at such a pace that it felt like someone had trapped a snitch inside her ribcage, and she briefly pondered how embarrassing it would be if she dropped dead of coronary failure. She closed her eyes, unable to look at him as she waited for the terrible, glorious, inevitable pressure of his lips against hers. Would he be rough, in punishment for all that schoolyard animosity? Worse, would he be _gentle_ , teasing her into responding before he abandoned her and left her red-faced and gasping? When the smooth skin of his lips _did_ make contact—with her _earlobe_ , thank Merlin, not her _mouth_ —she actually jumped. Relief coursed through her, along with something that felt laughably close to disappointment. Allowing his lips to brush the sensitive skin in a way that was surely deliberate, he breathed seven little words into her ear. It took her a moment to discern them around the rushing of her own blood.

“What?” she asked, excruciatingly aware of her own breathiness.

“You heard me.” he had withdrawn slightly, and looked directly into her eyes, nose almost touching hers.

“I heard you, Riddle.” she snapped, managing to pull herself together into something that might, if you squinted, have passed for composure. “I meant what’s the significance?”

“It’s my address.” he informed her, stepping back and (wordlessly) summoning his tie, which he tucked into the pocket of his slacks.

“ _Why_ -” it came out a bit pitchy and flustered, so Hermione cleared her throat and started again. “Why are you telling me your address, Riddle?”

“It’s under a Fidelius Charm. I’m the Secret Keeper.”

“A _Fidelius Charm_?” she scoffed at him, startled into something that resembled her usual Riddle-induced distemper. “While you’re the only person paranoid enough to imagine that your _bachelor pad_ holds any great, enigmatic allure, I’m quite certain that I don’t need the address.”

“You do.” he replied simply, giving her one of those appraising glances that made her feel as though her skin was peeling off.

“ _Why_?” she was too perplexed to think of anything wittier.

“To pursue me, of course.” he sounded perfectly unconcerned, and Hermione stammered at his manifest certainty.

“I-you-I-let me assure you, Riddle, that I will _not_ be _pursuing you_ anywhere.”

“You will.” the smug bastard replied, and leaned down to pick up her fallen briefcase. A heartbeat too slow to comprehend his plan, Hermione extended her hand for the case a mere fraction of a second before Riddle disapparated, taking her papers with him. She spent an unedifying moment gawking at the space where he’d been, one hand suspended inanely in mid-air.

“Riddle?” she asked, tentatively, as if he might have chosen just to hide behind the drapes. “Riddle? _Fuck_ ,” she quickly descended into a frantic kind of fury, “ _fuck, fuck, fuck_!” She _needed_ those papers for the following morning—they were for her first meetings of the day. Helplessly, she spun in a little pointless circle, gripping her hair with both hands.

There was nothing for it: she’d have to follow the scheming fucking snake back to his place. Still, if Riddle imagined she was so stupid as to go to his _unplottable_ bloody flat without telling anyone, he had another thing coming. If she ended up in a shallow grave, she’d make damn sure they knew where (and _at whom_ ) to look. With a huff of mingled determination and rage, Hermione attempted to apparate to Theo’s. Nothing happened.

Cursing the anti-apparition wards that she had momentarily forgotten, she made her way back out of Abraxas’ office. She was almost at the door when, with a sudden recollection and muttered oath, she summoned her cloak. She could do without the questions and gossip that would undoubtedly come up if she were to leave her abandoned garments lying on her employer’s office floor.

Arriving in the lift, Hermione pressed the button for the ground floor. Jabbed it, in fact. Nine times. As if that would make the lift work any faster. When it finally pottered its way to the lobby (and she swore it was half as quick on the way down as it had been on the way up), she clacked across the foyer at a ferocious pace, burst onto the rainy street, and disappeared with a crack.

*

The party was in full swing by the time she arrived, and a quick glance at Theo’s hideous grandfather clock indicated that it was already twenty to nine. While she hadn’t been looking forward to the cocktails with any great enthusiasm, it gave her yet another reason to resent Riddle—how dare he make her late to party she really hadn’t wanted to attend.

She was grateful that it was Harry who she ran into first. He was loitering in Theo’s living room, violently purple beverage in hand, looking adorably uncomfortable. Hermione wondered if he was privy to the fact that Theo had invited him largely in the hope of shagging him into a long-term relationship. Harry was so unobservant that she seriously doubted it.

“You alright, love?” Harry asked her, giving her a one-armed hug and a peck on the cheek. “You look a bit flushed.”

“Fine, Harry.” she squeezed him back. “Can’t stay—urgent work issue—but thought I’d better drop by to let Theo know. Have you seen him?”

“Not yet, one of the Lestranges let me in.”

“Never mind, I’ll track him down.” she made to move onwards, but Harry stopped her with a gentle hand on her arm.

“You sure you’re OK?” his bright green eyes were alive with concern. Perhaps he wasn’t so unobservant after all.

“Of course, Harry.” if her eyes were slightly watery (she _was_ feeling a bit overwrought), he let it go.

Hermione moved deeper into Theo’s enormous house, exchanging brief words with many of the people she passed. Eventually, she spotted Draco. While she could hardly believe she was about to speak to him willingly, he and Theo were best mates, so there was a reasonable chance he’d be able to direct her to the host.

“Malfoy.” it barely passed for a greeting, but she was beyond the point of politeness.

“Granger.” he replied. “Bit daring for you, isn’t it?” he flicked his gaze over her dress, indicating it with a breezy wave of his hand. “With those frumpy skirts you wore in school, I didn’t even know that you _had_ knees.”

“No, I don’t suppose you would have.” she retorted. “You were too busy getting acquainted with my fists.” Some of the self-satisfaction slid smoothly off Malfoy’s pointy face. “I’m looking for Theo,” she continued before he had a chance to respond, “have you seen him?”

“He was upstairs five minutes ago. Shouldn’t have gone far; he’s already a couple of sheets to the wind, the lightweight.” Hermione rolled her eyes at the same moment Malfoy rolled his, making it the most companionable gesture they’d ever exchanged. “Say, Granger,” he started, his tone clearly suggesting that he had every intention of spoiling their momentary accord, “I saw that Weasley’s here. He had his tongue down Lavender Brown’s throat.”

“Piss off, Malfoy.”

“I was just going to say, if you fancy a little tit for tat, I’d be willing to lend you _my_ tongue. You could be my good deed for the day.”

Hermione made a deliberate retching noise. “I’d rather vomit slugs, Malfoy, but thanks for the offer. It’s been a horror, as always.”

“Ditto, Granger.”

*

When Hermione finally made it upstairs, she found Theo chatting to Pansy Parkinson. “Hermione! My little Gryffin-roar!” he cried upon seeing her. He had a cocktail in each hand and, with his dress robes and delighted grin, looked like a flamboyant wizarding Gatsby. He also had the bright-eyed, pink-cheeked expression that clearly indicated he was half-pissed.

“Theo.” Hermione presented her cheek for a kiss, which Theo bestowed with an unnecessarily loud smack. “Parkinson.”

“Granger,” Pansy said, giving Hermione’s hair an obvious glance, “did you stick your wand in one of those muggle power sockets on your way here?”

“You know what, Pansy, Malfoy’s downstairs looking for an easy lay—you should go and find him. Theo,” Hermione ignored the other woman’s open-mouthed outrage, “can I have a word, please?”

“Of course, darling!” Theo gestured wildly with one of his drinks, nearly tipping the contents onto the priceless Persian rug. She dragged him into a slightly more discreet corner. “Have you seen Hotter?” he asked, abruptly earnest.

“He’s downstairs,” Hermione recognised Theo’s drunken amalgamation of ‘hot’ and ‘Potter’, “ _and_ he’s alone.”

“Perfect.” Theo replied with soused contentment. “Do you think he’ll let me suck him off in the upstairs bathroom? I’ve put a privacy charm on the door.”

“You’d have to ask him, I’m afraid. Look, Theo, I need you to listen.”

“I’m listening.” Theo assured her, straining his neck to look out of the door, as if Harry would somehow materialise just where he was wanted.

“Theo! This is important. It’s about work,” that sobered him up a little, “and Riddle.”

The simple mention of Riddle’s name brought some seriousness to Theo’s face, and he suddenly looked guarded.

“What about him?” he was just intoxicated enough that he was likely unaware of how ridiculously over-cautious he sounded.

“The bastard nicked my briefcase, with all my papers for tomorrow morning. I’m going to get them back.”

“You’re going to Tom’s place?” Theo’s exaggeratedly blasé tone took his rising inflection ludicrously high.

“Yes, and that’s what’s important. If I don’t show up tomorrow, I was going to Tom Riddle’s flat.”

“Tom’s flat?” a tipsy Theo was, apparently, a slow Theo.

“Yes. It’s Secret Kept, so I can’t tell you the address, but Paragon should have it on file. If something happens to me, Theo, _look there_.” Theo gave her a look of wide-eyed incomprehension, tempered with what might have been…glee?

“Okay.” he said.

“Theo, repeat the words back to me, please. If I don’t arrive at work tomorrow, where should you look?”

“Tom’s place.” Hermione nodded, and was preparing to leave when a new voice butted in.

“Did you say _Tom’s place_?” Avery, another Paragon employee and a former classmate of Riddle’s, appeared beside Theo, whatever he was drinking smoking ominously in his hand. “Hey, Granger,” he added, by way of greeting, “looking good. Tom’s place? Tom _Riddle_?”

“Yes, something’s come up.”

“Oh,” Theo gave a demented chortle, “I can guess _exactly_ what’s _come up_. Unless I am much mistaken, my dear, it’s about six inches long and resides somewhere between Tom’s navel and his thighs.” Avery cackled violently in response, making smoke curl out of his nostrils, while Hermione looked at them both with revolted incredulity.

“Eight.” Avery sputtered, laughing.

“What?” Theo said.

“I shared a dorm with him for seven years. Eight inches. At least.” Theo guffawed heartily in response, clinking his glass against Avery’s. “Don’t look so surprised, Granger. You must know Tom’s been mad for you for years.”

“I-” Hermione sensed a flush creeping up her neck as she strove not to think about the dimensions of Tom Riddle’s cock “-I beg your pardon?”

“Oh, bless her,” Theo said, looking at her with something close to pity, “she didn’t know.”

“As much as I appreciate the, uh, vote of confidence, Riddle _hates_ me.” she said. Avery and Theo both degenerated into pissed snickering.

“Granger, Tom definitely _doesn’t_ hate you.” Avery told her, looking surprisingly serious for a man who was at risk of snorting his drink out of his nose. “Why would you even think that?”

“Hermione,” Theo gave her a sympathetic glance, “Tom likes to _think_ he’s all mysterious and inscrutable, but he could only have made it more obvious if he tattooed the words ‘Mrs Hermione Riddle’ into a little heart on his dick. _You have to win Miss Granger over, Theodore_ ,” Theo put on a voice about two octaves lower than his usual one, “ _Paragon needs her_.”

“What are you… _how_ …look, Theo, you’ve had a lot to drink-”

“Not that much, darling. Salazar,” his expression was both fond and disbelieving, “I can’t believe you’re _really_ so obtuse that you hadn’t noticed. Here I was thinking that _Potter_ was oblivious. Bloody Gryffindors.”

“I’m leaving, Theo.”

“Off you go, then. Off to Tom’s lair.” Theo winked at her conspicuously.

“You could come with me, you know. To make sure nothing happened to me. It will be fast—just in and out—I only need to grab the briefcase.” Theo shook his head as Avery coughed madly, another mouthful of his cocktail having gone down the wrong pipe.

“Just _in and out_ , eh, Granger? I reckon you’re spot on with that, at least.” Hermione could feel how hot her face was, and stuttered ineffectually in response to Avery’s ridiculous innuendo.

“I’ll ask Harry, then.” she told Theo sniffily, once she had recovered herself. “He’ll come with me.”

“You will fucking not.” Theo said sternly. “I didn’t orchestrate this huge, expensive party just to let you take him away at the crucial moment.”

“ _You_ could come with me, Avery. We’re workmates.”

“Not on your life!” Avery looked at her like she was insane. “I saw what Tom did to that McLaggen bloke just for looking at you wrong, and that was in school. He’s way scarier now.”

“What?” Hermione couldn’t recall ever looking, sounding, or feeling so stupid, but she had no idea what he was on about.

“Yeah, I have no idea what hex that even _was_ , but the poor bugger’s eyes practically pissed acid for two days. He couldn’t read the blackboard for a week.”

Hermione tilted her head slightly: she _remembered_ that particular episode. Cormac had been a year above her, but even so, it had been a nasty enough bit of spellwork that word had got around. She’d been in the corridor when it had happened, but it seemed nobody had seen a thing, and they’d never been able to identify (let alone punish) the culprit. Still, it was nothing to do with _her_ —probably just some stupid Quidditch rivalry gone a step too far.

“ _Merlin_ , you’re both ridiculous.” she hissed under her breath. “I’m going.”

“Tata!” Theo beamed at her. “And darling, _do_ leave his face intact. I really need to close that Spanish deal on Monday, and the liaison obviously fancies the pants off him, so leave him alive and mostly undamaged, please.” Hermione had already started walking away, but she paused to make a rude hand gesture at Theo just before she went through the door. He and Avery laughed uproariously, making _much_ ruder, more suggestive gestures in response. She shook her head in disgust: pissed as newts, the pair of them.

Hermione had just gained the freedom of Theo’s patio, and the corresponding fresh air, when she had a thought. Ducking back into the foyer, she found Harry where she’d left him.

“Harry, love, I’m off, but Theo’s looking for you. He’s upstairs.” giving her best friend a quick wave, she returned to the patio and took a deep, steadying breath.

_The third-floor apartment, seven Lovage Lane_. Fixing the words in her mind, she determined, deliberated, and vanished.

***

Tom glanced at the clock for what was (he realised with no small amount of frustration) the third time _that minute_. He’d have suspected that it was broken, were it not for the fact that the second hand was still making its way routinely around the face. It was four minutes past nine, almost half an hour since he’d left Miss Granger standing in their boss’s office, and he was beginning to think he might have misjudged.

He had initially planned on fucking her there, ideally on Abraxas’ desk. While the idea was hardly novel, he had watched her stand in front of that desk during a meeting the previous week, and had been distracted into imagining how she might look spread across it. If Miss Granger hadn’t been keen on the desk, however, there was also Abraxas’ chair (it was big and lavish—Tom could have sat in it while she rode him), the lounge suite (velvet—surely comfortable), and even the carpet (which was of the plushest, most expensive sort). His entire week had centred on luring her to the office, outside of work hours, to facilitate that plan.

As always, Miss Granger had surprised him.

While Tom certainly hadn’t been expecting her to _swoon_ , or anything similarly ridiculous, he hadn’t expected her to actually draw her wand on him. Slap him, perhaps; swear at him, almost certainly; but threaten him with _genuine_ bodily harm? That had startled him. Not to say he hadn’t liked it—feeling her wand against his throat had been rather… _enjoyable_ , in its own way, and a certain part of his anatomy twitched at the recollection—but it had forced him to suddenly reconsider his plans. In the past, their skirmishes had always been of the verbal kind, and Miss Granger had certainly never been backward in telling him precisely what she thought of him. For her to stutter and stumble and pull her wand made very clear that something was _different_ , and he thought she’d appreciate the opportunity to regroup.

While she was clearly attracted to him (flushed, huge pupils, heaving chest, clenched thighs), he supposed that the setting might have been causing her undue anxiety. It may have been after hours, but there was always a slim chance that someone might return to the office for some reason or another, and she probably _would_ be embarrassed by the idea of being found writhing around Tom’s cock while she dripped on their employer’s desk. Except for a touch of well-earned intellectual vanity, she was largely a modest witch (her fetching party clothes were little more than a blatantly Gryffindor attempt to rub her ex-boyfriend’s nose in what he was missing), and Tom understood her desire for privacy. It could equally have been that she was simply surprised—he had never made his attentions _quite_ so crystalline—and was struggling to process the sudden indisputability of his advances.

At any rate, he’d been happy to allow Miss Granger the extra time she needed to compose herself (he wanted her to come to him _willingly_ ), but he hadn’t been about to let her go without some sort of leverage. When she’d dropped her briefcase, she’d let the perfect bait fall right onto his foot. He _knew_ there was no way she would turn up to tomorrow’s meetings without the necessary paperwork. He was equally certain that she wouldn’t have been able to create duplicates (he may, in fact, have been the one to suggest the confidentiality clause in her contract that prevented her from taking such measures). He also knew that, no matter her formidable dedication, she couldn’t possibly do the work over in the available time. If he took the papers, and gave her his address, she would have no choice _but_ to follow.

That had been twenty nine minutes ago, though, and he was beginning to wonder.

Miss Granger was an organised, methodical, and cautious witch. He hadn’t assumed that she would simply run downstairs and apparate after him, but he had reasoned that she’d go to Potter or to Theodore. She would be sure to let _someone_ know where she was going, just in case anything untoward prevented her from arriving at work in a timely fashion the following morning (she was unwaveringly punctual). Theodore worked for Paragon, and knew them both, making him the obvious choice. Theodore was also hosting a party that evening, giving her the perfect reason to go and see him. Tom had calculated it carefully: three minutes to leave Abraxas’ office and travel down to the foyer, one to apparate to Nott’s, ten to find Theodore and communicate her intentions, another to apparate to Tom’s. Fifteen minutes in all, maybe twenty if he were generous with all his estimates, not—he paused to look at the clock again— _thirty one_.

Tom had spent almost two hours in a state of constant semi-arousal which had left him tense and unusually restless. He had considered masturbating upon his arrival home, to take the edge off, but there had been a _tiny_ possibility that Miss Granger might have arrived within a few minutes, and it would have been unseemly to be caught moaning her name with his cock in his hand. After six minutes of frenzied pacing, he had forced himself to sit down, medicated himself to a state of (faux) calmness with a firewhiskey, and tried to ignore the fact that he was half-hard and more than half-concerned she wouldn’t show.

He had spent the preceding evening ensuring that his apartment was scrupulously, faultlessly clean (it always was, but he had been hoping she might accompany him home, and hadn’t wanted her to think him some sort of negligent slob), so he couldn’t even pursue _that_ mindless occupation. He had brushed his teeth a second time for good measure—her parents were dentists, he was sure she’d appreciate it—and had reapplied his cologne to give it a chance to settle before she arrived. He was wearing his shoes (one could never be too certain of how someone might feel about feet), but had removed his socks so that he wouldn’t have to do so later (Nott had once, in a drunken stupor, informed Tom that there was nothing so _un_ sexy as a man removing his socks in the heat of the moment). His hair was probably a mess, courtesy of the agitated hand that he kept running through it, but he rather hoped it would come off as attractively tousled. He’d left his top two buttons undone (he was aware of the way her eyes had fixed on his neck when he’d unfastened them in the first place) and his sleeves rolled up to expose his forearms. Everything about him was intended to hasten Miss Granger’s inevitable capitulation.

It was a setup compromised by a single, unfortunate fact: her absence.

Tom glanced at the clock for the umpteenth time. _Thirty three minutes_. Perhaps he was wrong. Perhaps the dauntless Miss Granger was, in fact, so daunted that she wasn’t coming. Perhaps (a particularly ghastly thought), she was so repelled by the thought of him that she’d rather fail to deliver her project. He didn’t _think_ that was the case—she was obsessively committed to her work—but he’d been wrong before. He’d been wrong with his notes, and with the flowers, and with the invitation to Hogsmeade. What was to say that he wasn’t wrong again?

He reined in his errant perturbation: he was _quite certain_ that she would come. Miss Granger had never been one to back away from a challenge, even when she’d been a sixteen-year-old Prefect and he’d been her eighteen-year-old Head Boy, and she wouldn’t start now. To refuse to come would constitute either failure (and she was petrified of failure—he remembered Draco howling with laughter when her third-year Boggart had been Professor McGonagall informing her that she’d failed her exams) or cowardice (which would be an offense against her Gryffindor nature). He hadn’t _threatened_ her; she had no real, tangible reason _not_ to come; and she would be _desperate_ to recover her briefcase. Tom gave a sharp, decisive nod that nobody was there to witness before starting to his feet as a deafening _crack_ resounded through the room.

Hermione Granger, in her red dress and silver shoes, was standing in his apartment. Tom was struck by the foolish, sentimental thought that he never wanted her to leave.

*

“Give me my briefcase, Riddle.” she clipped. While her voice lacked its usual bossy conviction, her wand was gripped in her hand, and Tom felt the unyielding weight of her bright gaze as he sidled closer. He walked right up into her personal space, watching her swallow nervously, before reaching down and plucking the wand from her grasp. She snatched at it as he whipped it away, but she’d been so prepared for a _magical_ disarmament that she had overlooked the possibility of his simply seizing it from her tense grip. Tom normally wouldn’t have bothered, but he’d allowed her to threaten him _once_ already that evening—he wouldn’t permit her to do so again.

“You won’t be needing this.” he tucked it into his pocket, alongside his own wand, and felt a faint current jump between the two. The sensation was almost erotic.

“ _Please_ ,” she hissed at him, unable to conceal her obvious wariness at the way that he’d deprived her of her weapon, “we both know I don’t need a wand to blow you to kingdom come.”

“Blow me?” he asked, smothering his smirk until it was just a faint twitch at the corner of his mouth. “Interesting choice of words, Miss Granger.” she flushed almost as brilliantly scarlet as her dress.

“I-I didn’t mean-”

“I did.” Tom said simply. Her lips parted slightly, her collarbones projecting as she leaned discreetly away from him, and he followed the movement, little realising that it was a trap.

As soon as his face came within easy distance, she dealt him a slap that made his ears fucking _ring_. He could feel his cheek scorching where she’d struck him, and fancied she’d be easily able to see the mark against his fair skin. He wondered if she’d like that.

“That was for calling me a mudblood!” she spat up at him, ignoring the fact that he hadn’t asked.

“I have never called you that-” he started, but she interrupted.

“Oh, you didn’t _say the word_ , but you _let_ Malfoy say it, which is pretty much the same-”

“-and I spent _years_ trying to apologise for that incident in the library-”

“-and you have _never_ fucking apologised for it-”

“-I sent you flowers-”

“-outside of sending me a _bramble_ that made me _bleed_ -”

“-and I offered you my course notes, which you flung back in my face-”

“-and using your notes to rub my nose in your supposed superiority-”

“- _and_ I invited you to Hogsmeade, which you somehow interpreted as an insult!”

“-then trying to lure me to Hogsmeade for whatever cruel game you were planning with your cronies.”

They stopped almost simultaneously, practically nose to nose. She was breathing hard, face pink, and Tom doubted he was in better shape.

“And _now_ ,” she continued, apparently satisfied that he’d stopped talking, “you’ve pinched my briefcase. So, what, you can tamper with it? Prevent me from delivering it? Haven’t you had enough of trying to drag my career into ruin?”

“ _Nobody_ has done more for your career than I have.”

“Oh, shitting all over my prospects in the DRCMC is your idea of _helping_ , is it?” she gave a shrill, inauthentic laugh. “I _heard_ you threaten Babbs that night, Riddle; I _know_ it was you who tried to drive me out.”

“I offered you a job!”

“When did you ever offer me a job?”

“That night, outside Babbs’ office. You were wasted working for that imbecile, and I thought that, if you felt your contribution to the department wasn’t appreciated, you might finally reconsider coming to work at Paragon, with-” Tom caught himself a moment before an inexcusable personal pronoun crossed his lips.

“You-you think _that_ was a job offer? _We’d welcome you at Paragon_.” she imitated, puffing her chest and lowering her voice into something that sounded nothing like him. “If _Theo_ couldn’t convince me to work there, what makes you think you could?”

“Who do you think asked Theodore to try to persuade you when you were still at school?” Tom demanded, unable to believe that she could be so extraordinarily unobservant as to think he’d spent all those years trying to _harm_ her, and denying him accordingly. “Who do you think wanted you liberated from your pathetic, pen-pushing job in the DRCMC? Who do you think convinced the Malfoys that your highly-paid collaboration with Nott was _essential_ to the success of this project? I have spent _years_ trying to tempt you into a secure, lucrative, challenging position at Paragon, Granger—where you would _finally_ be recognised on your merit—so don’t try to tell _me_ that I’ve been dragging you down.”

He took advantage of her momentary silence—as he should have done in that Hogwarts stairwell, or in the corridor outside Babbs’ office, or at countless other moments in the years of their association—and kissed her.

*

For a breathless moment Miss Granger failed to respond, and Tom felt all his internal organs shrivel slightly at the thought that she simply didn’t want him. Then, however, and with vigour that surprised him, even though it shouldn’t have, she kissed him back.

It was like kissing the _sun_. She was heat and fire and wild, chaotic curls, and she was warming him, but _burning_ him, and he didn’t know whether to be grateful or to fear for his life. She twisted her hands in his hair, yanking hard enough that he suspected it was a punishment, and Tom gasped at the pressure even as he relished it. He nipped her lip in response, and she bit his twice as hard, so sharply that he wondered if she might have drawn blood. She raked her fingernails across his scalp, making his spine prickle with the pain-almost-pleasure, before digging them into the nape of his neck. His hands gripped her waist hard enough that it would likely pinch, and he half-led, half-dragged her to his bedroom.

If pressed to remember later, Tom would find the following minutes to be strangely blurred, almost as if they’d happened to someone else. He’d remember throwing her down on the bed (mostly because of the way she _bounced_ , making her wild hair flip forward over her face). He’d recall unbuckling her silver shoes and flinging them aside (hours later, they’d find that one had cleverly hooked itself over the handle of his desk drawer). He’d know that he’d peeled off her lacy thigh holster using only his teeth, holding her down while she—shrieking that it tickled—pleaded with him to stop. He’d remember stroking his thumb along the crotch of her knickers and finding the material already saturated with her arousal before they removed the garment in a frenzy of frantic, mutual effort. Nonetheless, the recollections all possessed a hot, hazy quality, rather like a fever dream, right up to the moment that he spread her legs and dragged his tongue along her exposed cunt.

Tom had always striven to cultivate skills that he perceived as both useful and transferable: suasion, cogency, precision, intensity. He applied them all, as well as he was able, to the woman beneath him. For the first time in his life, he really didn’t care how much mess or noise he made, or how undignified he might look. He gripped her thighs fiercely, preventing them from closing around his ears and leaving her exposed and vulnerable to his ministrations. He used the flat and the point of his tongue, and was shamelessly thorough: sucking on her labia, tracing her delicate creases with his lips, fucking her as deeply as he could with his tongue. When he moved to her clit, circling it, pressing on either side, rubbing the broad surface of his tongue slowly across it, he could hear Hermione whimpering. In between her whispered oaths—some directed at Merlin, he noticed, some at the muggle God, some entirely unintelligible—she gasped out words of affirmation, and arched and shuddered against his mouth.

She came gloriously, as he’d always fantasised she would, with a strangled sound halfway between a shout and a whine, her legs trembling wildly in his hands as her stomach caved with the force of her ragged breaths. Taking advantage of her momentary distraction, he shed his pants in a way he hoped was titillating rather than pathetically awkward. She immediately glanced down at him—unfailingly curious, his lioness—and he grinned when her eyelids fluttered and she groaned at the sight. Tom crawled over her as she recovered, sliding his arms beneath her shoulders and pushing his hips to hers, twining their bodies together as closely as he could.

It took him two attempts to align himself with her entrance (they were pressed together so intimately that it was a little difficult), but when he did he teased her opening with the head of his prick, entering her achingly slowly as she twisted and cursed and demanded that he hurry up. He laughed softly at her obvious impatience—she bit him for his troubles, sinking her teeth into his shoulder hard enough to make him hiss—before finally thrusting home, making her squeal with surprise and gratification. As they began to move against one another (her writhing futilely in his hold as he delivered long, slow strokes) she let out a soft growl of satisfaction that caused all the fine hairs on his body to stand on end.

Tom made an effort to fuck her slowly at first, giving her time to stretch, but their pace quickly escalated to something almost savage. They may have wanted each other with a scorching kind of ferocity, but there was also anger, and bitterness, and frustration, all mingled into a heady brew along with years of poorly-repressed desire and resentful admiration. It was passionate, certainly, but only a madman would have called it sweet.

The first time she sobbed his given name (amid a stream of incomplete profanities and wordless entreaties) he rewarded her with particularly deep thrusts and filthy words muttered in her ear. He repeated the process every time thereafter, until she was crying his name repeatedly, practically _singing_ for him. She locked her legs around his waist, and scraped her little claws along his back, and clutched and shoved at him as if she could hardly decide whether she’d had too much or not enough. Tom didn’t last long (he hadn’t expected to, despite the aspirations of an unrealistic, hopeful little subdivision of his imagination) before he came with a gasp of _Hermione_. He hadn’t quite realised what a _habit_ it had become, climaxing with her name on his lips, but if her silent scream was any indication, she didn’t mind. She clenched around his twitching cock, shivering at the sensation, and stroked his back as they collapsed onto his sheets in a languorous heap.

*

Sometime later, as they lay half-dozing and half-exploring, Tom felt Hermione stiffen. She had been pressed into his chest, tantalising him with a series of soft kisses and touches, when his wandering hands discerned her sudden rigidity.

“What’s the matter?” he asked sleepily, unable to recall the last time he had felt so relaxed, and certain that he’d _never_ felt so sated.

“Nothing.” she said breezily, illuminating the lie. Tom pulled her leg over his hip and pressed his mouth to her ear.

“Tell me.”

“I was just,” her momentary hesitation was obvious smokescreen, “thinking about how nice you smell. Parchment, and toothpaste, and that posh cologne you wear.” he allowed himself a smile that she couldn’t see. He understood very well exactly what she _wasn’t_ saying.

“Like your Amortentia, you mean?” she stiffened even further and tried to draw back, her retreat complicated by his serpentine embrace. Her golden eyes, half-black with desire, met his, and he could see the anxiety etched across her artless face.

“I…Tom…”

“Do you know what _my_ Amortentia smells like?” he didn’t wait for a response. “Old books, and peppermint mouthwash, and that vanilla sugar they use to make sugar quills, and your perfume.”

“Oh.” she replied softly, trailing her fingers across his collarbone and smiling at him as shyly as if they hadn’t spent the preceding four hours fucking each other senseless in assorted positions. 

*

The following morning, Tom arrived at Paragon punctually, joining Theodore Nott in the lift. Even though they both had the ability to apparate within the building, Abraxas did like the ceremony of his staff arriving via the official channels.

“Morning, Tom.” Theodore sounded chipper, despite the bags under his eyes. If the strength of his aftershave was any indication, he was very much hoping to conceal the stink of the previous night’s alcohol.

“Morning, Theodore.” Tom replied mildly. Nott gave him an assessing, sideways look.

“You’re in a…strangely upbeat mood this morning.”

“Am I?”

“Is that—Salazar—is that a _love bite_?”

“Hold the lift, please!” a new, feminine voice chimed from the foyer, sparing Tom the indignity of responding. Theodore stuck his arm out of the doors to prevent them from closing, and a moment later Miss Granger dashed into the lift. She looked attractively businesslike in a black pencil skirt and cream blouse, her horrible briefcase in her hand.

“Miss Granger.” Tom greeted her indifferently.

“Riddle.”

“I believe your contract expires today.”

“It was supposed to,” Hermione responded, “but I owled Abraxas earlier this morning to ask about an extension. In fact, I’ve already given notice to the DMLE.”

“Changed your mind about working for Paragon after all?” Tom asked smoothly.

“I’ve come to the conclusion that the company does have its good points. Besides which, _someone_ needs to provide the moral compass to keep all you scheming, mercenary snakes in line.”

“Oh _Merlin_ ,” Theodore whispered, sounding revolted, “is this _foreplay_? Stop the lift. Let me out.”

“No red hood today?” Tom ignored Nott’s snivelling.

“No need for it.” Miss Granger said. “Although, I’ll tell you a little something that you might have forgotten about that particular fairy tale.”

Tom raised an eyebrow and made a non-committal noise, inviting her to continue.

“In the end, it’s not the Wolf who wins: it’s Red Riding Hood.”


End file.
